


Snowbound

by Doctor_WTF



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorkable, All the bad romantic tropes, F/M, Missed Connections, Skiing, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_WTF/pseuds/Doctor_WTF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock invites Molly to solve cases with him on the romantic slopes of the Swiss Alps both have different expectations for the trip. All Molly wants is to be a good friend to Sherlock while he wants to finally tip their relationship into a more serious not-friends territory. Nothing ever happens as planned though and maybe those Alps aren't all that romantic anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyCorvidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCorvidae/gifts).



“No, absolutely not,” John said, his voice nearly heated. Pausing outside the door, stack of files in her arms, Molly hesitated at the entrance to her lab. Were Sherlock and John quarreling again? She wouldn’t want to interrupt them if they were. Sherlock had a tendency to strike out against everyone present when he was cross and she never particularly felt like being torn apart by the great Consulting Detective’s deductions. While Sherlock had been unusually kind to her lately, she didn’t want to jinx things. Yet the files in her arms were heavy and her limbs were just starting to tremble a bit. If she didn’t get them to a counter soon she was in danger of dropping the whole pile and messing up the files Sherlock had just requested would make the man even crosser. She would just have to interrupt.

Toeing the door open, Molly bumped the door with her hip then her bum as she pushed through it, eyes on the unsteady pile. So caught up in the process of opening the door while not dropping anything, Molly jumped with a little squeak as John slapped his hand upon the counter and said, quite loudly, “Because it’s Christmas! That’s why!”

Papers flew everywhere, fluttering to the floor. Molly felt her face heat and she knew she was becoming quite flushed as Sherlock and John turned to look at her. “S-sorry,” she muttered, stooping to quickly gather up the files.

“No, Molly. My fault. I’m sorry,” John said, hurrying over. He knelt beside her, gathering up the papers and shot her a smile. “I shouldn’t have yelled. You know how Sherlock can be though.”

She did and yet somehow she didn’t at the same time. There had been a time when Molly had thought she’d known Sherlock completely, when she thought that she had been able to see him and not the mask he wanted people to see, but that had been before. Before she’d helped him fake his death. Ever since then Sherlock had been, well, distant. There was a new wall between them and this time she couldn’t see over it. That wasn’t something to tell John though, not while Sherlock was there in any case, and so she just smiled tightly back at him and tried to quickly get the pages back into the correct order and in their proper folders.

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock pulled himself from his lab stool and came to hover over them both, hands in his coat pockets. “Simply stating that it’s Christmas is not an adequate excuse, John,” he said peevishly, brow furrowed and a pout dangerously close to forming. “Despite all of your assumptions about me, I do keep track of the days and so I am aware of the seasonal festivities occurring shortly. In all likelihood these robberies are only occurring due to the holiday season and shall cease as soon as the festivities are over. This may be our only opportunity to catch the thief.”

“No Sherlock,” John said firmly. He shoved a handful of papers into a folder so hard they crumpled and Molly winced, taking it from him quickly and trying to sort them out. Picking up the last paper John stood and glowered at the much taller man. “This is Lizzie’s first Christmas. I’m not going overseas on some sort of wild goose chase and missing that.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, the pout even closer to forming. His lip was starting to protrude, eyes going puppy dog soft. “It's not like the infant is even aware of the time of year, nor would she remember if you happened to pop off for a week or two.”

“That’s not the point!” John insisted hotly. “I’ll know that I missed it and I’ll never forgive myself for missing something like that. Mary will never forgive me for missing it either. Besides, I don’t even know how to ski!”

Against her better judgement, Molly looked up from her files. “Ski?” she asked. Now there was something she’d never considered before. Sherlock in a tight ski suit, a pair of downhills on his shoulder and goggles atop his head, curls peeking out from under a hat as he offered her a hot cuppa cocoa. She felt herself go pink as both men looked at her and she desperately hoped that Sherlock wasn’t deducing the way her mind had automatically gone. “Are you going skiing?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light.

“Sherlock was contacted to help catch a jewel thief robbing the slopes of the Swiss Alps blind,” John said as Sherlock peered at her. At last the raven haired man looked away and she relaxed a bit, focusing on the ex-soldier a bit more closely. “Apparently some thief who calls himself ‘Thousand Faces’ has been sending out taunting notes warning of his upcoming thefts then absconding with the jewels no matter how many men the police send to guard them.”

Scoffing loudly, Sherlock went back to his lab stool and slouched into it. “The police are idiots everywhere. If they’d contacted me earlier I could have had this case solved by now and there wouldn’t be any of this nonsense about celebrating antique pagan rituals.”

John shot him a look before turning back to Molly. “Ignore him. He’s been like this all day ever since I said I wouldn’t go.”

“Elizabeth will never know the difference if you postpone your festivities until after the case is solved,” Sherlock said from his stool.

“Yeah, but I still don’t magically know how to ski all of a sudden.”

“Oh I know how to ski,” Molly said and instantly regretted it. Both men were looking at her again and she swallowed heavily, mentally cursing herself. She hadn’t meant to say that at all, she’d just blurted it out and now suddenly Sherlock was staring at her like she was an insect on a pin. “Or, well, I used to,” she quickly amended.

“Where did you learn how to ski?” Sherlock asked and then instantly answered his own question. “Family holidays spent abroad, of course. Yearly until circumstances changed and ended them.”

What went unsaid was the car accident that had taken her Mother and Molly found herself surprisingly grateful that Sherlock had neglected to mention it. It was a little surprising that he hadn’t, but then the detective did seem to be trying to be a bit more kind to people. She nodded, tentatively meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes I, ah, got rather good at it before the end actually. Not enough to leave the groomed slopes of course, but I was skiing the reds and some of the blacks by myself.”

Staring at her for another long moment, Sherlock nodded abruptly. “Yes, excellent. It’s decided then.”

Molly blinked, brow furrowing. “What’s been decided?” she asked as John sighed deeply and rubbed his brows.

“Sherlock….”

“You’ll attend the case with me and operate as my assistant,” Sherlock said, a smile crossing his lips. “I may have need for a pathologist on this trip.”

“You’re expecting that someone could be murdered?” Molly asked, frowning.

“Well, one can hope.”

“Sherlock, this is a bit not good,” John interjected, voice gone all firm again. “You just can’t tell Molly that she’s coming with you, you have to ask her first.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Fine,” he growled. Turning towards Molly he stood abruptly strode forward, invading her space and seizing her hand in one of his own. He gazed down upon her with those piercing bright blue eyes and smiled at her softly, thumb caressing her knuckles. “Molly, would you be so kind to join me on an all-expense paid trip to the Swiss Alps to catch a jewel thief with a ridiculous name? I would appreciate it ever so much.”

Heart pounding in her chest, Molly nodded once. “Y-yes. I… ah, I suppose…”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said and, swooping down, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow promptly at ten. Pack lightly, I’ll purchase whatever you need once we get there. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Popping his coat collar Sherlock smirked at her and speedily headed for the door as Molly gaped after him.

“W-Wait!” she managed to protest, rational thought coming back as Sherlock reached the door. “I’m scheduled to work over the holidays and Toby-”

“I’ll take care of speaking with Stamford and I’m certain your friend Meena can care for your cat while we’re gone,” Sherlock said, and opened the door. He paused, looking back at her and gave her a wink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Molly.”

Face scarlet and heart pounding, Molly looked to John who sighed again and shrugged uselessly. “I’ll talk to him,” he said, hurrying to follow Sherlock. “He can’t just do things like this, demand that people jump to follow him and expect them to ask how high. I’ll get you out of this, it’s not right that he’s dragging you along. Don’t worry Molly.”

Blinking, Molly touched her hand to her chest and shakily sat down as the door swung shut after John. Despite everything, despite all the history between them, Sherlock could still make her feel like a giddy school girl with a wink and a smile. She should have been revolted with herself and yet… An entire holiday with Sherlock? Alone? In the mountains? Her mind summoned crackling fires and fur rugs and she flushed scarlet before quickly tamping those thoughts down.

Sherlock had asked her on this case as an assistant and, probably, as a friend and so that is what she was going to be. No romantic fantasies, no expectations, and certainly no making him uncomfortable with her feelings she told herself firmly. They were coworkers. That’s all they were and all they were going to be and, God help her, she was going to be the best goddamn coworker of all time. She’d take notes and help Sherlock with his deductions and stare as his bum as he skied down a wintry slope and…

Groaning, Molly buried her face in her hands. What had she gotten herself into?


	2. The Devious Plot

Sherlock practically hummed as he regarded his wardrobe with a critical eye. It was a delicate thing, packing for a case. Especially for a case as important as this one. It wouldn't do to go through all this trouble and nonsense just for things not to work out as he planned. Failure was not an option. Now which shirt would go best with his black suit? The blue silk to bring out his eyes or the purple Egyptian cotton to enhance the almost translucent paleness of his skin?

Brain abruptly shifting, Sherlock belatedly realized that John was still there and grumbling at him from his perch by the bedroom door. Was he really still here? He'd thought they'd parted ways after Barts, but then he couldn't recall paying the cabbie that had brought him home so John must have tagged along. How bothersome. John wouldn't be of any help with deciding his wardrobe, but perhaps if he could use the other man's presence to coax Mary into coming over? She'd surely appreciate his plans and be eager to help.

"Sherlock, stop messing with your clothes and look at me," John demanded, arms crossed and looking quite annoyed as he glared at Sherlock. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock lied smoothly, holding up one shirt to his chest and peering into the mirror then the other. He catalogued the way the light struck him then cross-referenced that information with some of the reactions he'd received when wearing each shirt. Honestly, the feedback he'd gotten while wearing them had been equally good so he tossed both upon his bed before going back to rummaging. Didn't he have a rather devastating charcoal suit that had become half a size too tight back there? "You were attempting to convince me that I should not bring Molly Hooper with me to the Alps."

John scowled, more at Sherlock managing to guess the topic of conversation rather than any real annoyance. "It's a bit not good the way you treat her, Sherlock. You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" he asked, carefully going through an (admittedly very small) collection of waistcoats. He'd gotten very good results from wearing waistcoats, but were they too formal? Hesitating he picked out a scarlet one and tossed it and a black silk shirt upon the bed before searching for his best trousers. He may find cause to wear a three-piece suit while in Switzerland, it was better to be prepared.

"Playing with Molly's feelings like this."

That brought him up short. Sherlock cast a baffled look over his shoulder, hands full of his best pants. "What do you mean playing with Molly's feelings?"

John sighed in that overly dramatic way he was prone to and stepped fully into the room. "Sherlock, I know you don't do relationships, but there's something you need to know. Molly has feelings for you. She's had feelings for you for years."

He blinked at John for a moment before turning back to his wardrobe in search of socks. "I know. Now John, how do you think women feel about sock garters?"

"Sock- Wait, what? You knew?"

"Of course I knew," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Molly's made it painfully obvious that she's had a little crush on me ever since we've met. Your information is a bit out of date though. Molly has ceased to have feelings for me ever since my death, an issue I plan to rectify on this trip."

John made a little strangled noise that prompted Sherlock to look over at him, only to find the man looking shocked beyond words. "You're planning on WHAT!?" he demanded in a near shout.

Wincing at the noise, Sherlock tossed a handful of socks upon the bed. "I'm planning on convincing Molly to return to her previous state and begin having feelings for me again," Sherlock said before going back to his clothes. "Taking her on this case shall remind her of all the reasons she was fond of me. I'll dazzle her with my deductions, present myself as a potential romantic partner, woo her with sentiment, and, if all else fails, seduce her."

John fumbled for words and, looking a bit lightheaded, sat down hard on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "You're going to seduce Molly Hooper," he said, voice strained.

"Yes, of course I am. It shall be rather difficult to convince her to move in with me if I don't," Sherlock said and pulled a garment bag down from the top of his suitcase. "Now John pay attention. You have a wife, what do you suppose her opinion on sock garters are?"

"Hang your sock garters!" John snapped. His face went pink as he glared at Sherlock, hands clenching into fists. "I don't believe it Sherlock. How can you be so cruel!? Leading her on is one thing, but purposefully playing with Molly's feelings like this, it's-"

"I am not playing with Molly's feelings," Sherlock interrupted, voice dark as he spun around. "I want Molly to love me again as much as I love her. I need to get her into a romantic setting in order to determine if she can start to care for me again."

John gaped at him, mouth falling open. "You… You love Molly Hooper? Our Molly Hooper? From the morgue?"

"Don't be daft, John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and going back to his wardrobe. "Honestly, I don't see why you're so surprised. We've discussed this at length before."

"Was I actually in the room when this conversation happened?"

Pausing, Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Now that I think of it, I may have been speaking to your Mind Palace equivalent."

"Right," John muttered and tried to get his thoughts back in order. Sherlock loved Molly. The man he'd always thought of as asexual or possibly gay loved Molly from the morgue. Sherlock was in love. Nope, no matter how many times he thought the words they didn't seem possible. He never would have imagined Sherlock admitting that he loved anything besides a gruesome decapitation much less do so as casually as Sherlock had. As if admitting he loved Molly Hooper was no big deal and he did it every day. A terrible thought crossed his mind. "Sherlock, you're actually taking Molly on a case, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock said, sounding insulted. "How else can I showcase my brilliance if I don't take her on a case?"

Right, so maybe this wasn't some sort of devious plot, but really he had to be certain. "Sherlock, why do you love Molly?"

"Why do you love Mary?" the man countered.

John sputtered, throwing up his hands. "This isn't about me!" Sherlock cast a glare at him and he sighed deeply, crossing his arms. "Fine. I love Mary because she's kind and thoughtful. Just being with her makes me happier than I've ever been before in my life and content and, well, I don't know. We share a life and a child and I just love her."

"The feelings I have for Molly is much the same," Sherlock said, stopping his packing long enough to gaze back at her blogger. "Molly is kind to me, kinder than anyone has been and far more kind than I deserve. She's gentle, supports my research, aids me with my experiments-"

"It sounds like you want a personal assistant, not a girlfriend," John muttered, but the other man ignored him, carrying on as if he hadn't spoke.

"Most of all she's clever," Sherlock said. His voice changed as he said it, tone going deeper and John blinked, staring at his former flatmate. "While I admit that I was highly attracted to Irene Adler, the more time I spent with her the less enamored I became. Yet, with Molly it's the opposite. I enjoy speaking with her and spending time with her. More than that, I consistently look forward to the times when I can spend more time with her. In addition I am very fond of reading her publications. Just last week she came out with a study linking insect foraging habits to estimated times of death and it was… perfect."

John blinked again, eyebrows going up as Sherlock spoke. At the bit about the paper Sherlock had completely changed his voice going into a gravelly rasp and his eyes growing distant and dark. Frowning, he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong only to freeze and leap to his feet instead. Oh fuck. Sherlock was aroused. It would figure. Half naked and completely naked women sprawled across his lap and the man was unaffected, but throw a woman who dressed entirely in twee sweaters armed with a pathology journal at him and suddenly John was glad he had moved out.

"Good to know," John said, moving towards the door. "Just remember to be careful of her feelings, Sherlock. If you break her Lestrade and I will break you."

"Of course," Sherlock said distractedly then sighed deeply. "Blast, not again. This sort of biological reaction can be quite the problem, can't it?"

Was Sherlock Holmes honestly talking to him about his boner? John was too afraid to ask and yet too horrified to continue walking away. "I, ah, don't know about that. Molly might appreciate it," he said weakly.

"Yes, but Molly's not here. Yet," Sherlock said, sounding distracted.

Sensing freedom, John muttered a goodbye and raced towards the door only to pause as Sherlock called his name. "Oh John? If you're leaving could you bring me my pathology journal? It's on the kitchen table."

His former roommate and best friend had an erection and was asking for a pathology journal that just thinking about had aroused him. There was no way in hell he was touching that thing. In fact, there was no way he was ever going to touch anything dealing with any of Sherlock's experiments ever again. Shouting a 'No!' John slammed the door behind him and barreled down the steps, dialing his mobile as he went. The call connected as he hit the outdoor world and he let out a strangled laugh as he headed for the Tube station. "Mary, sit down. You're never going to be able to guess what Sherlock just told me."


	3. Arrival

Molly frowned as the cabbie helped them unload their bags at the airport. Taking Sherlock's advice all she'd packed was a small carry-on and her purse but Sherlock was bringing one, two, was that really three bags worth of things? How long did he really expect for them to stay in Switzerland? A month?

"I thought you said to pack light," she said as Sherlock paid the cabbie.

Sherlock looked at her, appearing startled for a moment as his eyes raked over his own luggage then hers. Now was it her imagination or were the tips of his ears going a bit pink? It was probably the chill in the air, really. While the weather wasn't about to change into snow it was still plenty cold out and Sherlock didn't seem to believe in hats at all. The picture of him in the deerstalker was probably to blame for that, actually.

"Ah," he finally murmured then cleared his throat. "I did say that."

"Then why-"

"I had to make certain I was prepared for every contingency," Sherlock interrupted, seizing two of his bags by the handles. "You understand of course. In the event that an unexpected weather event or special occasion occurs I wished to be properly attired."

"I'm afraid that I didn't pack much," Molly said, looking worriedly at her own bag. She'd taken Sherlock at his word that he'd be purchasing her whatever she needed in Switzerland, something she was regretting now that she'd seen the size of his own bags. While she didn't have much that would be appropriate for a ski holiday, she could have brought more. A lot more, actually. She'd barely remembered to pack her toothbrush she'd been so flustered over the thought of going on holiday with Sherlock. A working holiday, she mentally corrected herself. There was a case to solve after all.

"That's fine," Sherlock said as she took hold of his third bag and followed him into the building. "I told you that I'd purchase you whatever you need and I shall."

"I really didn't pack much at all," she sighed. "Really, I only brought a spare pair of clothes and some knickers. I don't even think I remembered to pack anything to sleep in."

Sherlock abruptly froze and she crashed into his back, nearly knocking him on his face. Gasping an apology, Molly looked up at the taller man to see that he very nearly looked stricken, having gone pale standing there in the middle of the airport. "Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked.

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock nodded. Color returned to his face as he glanced between the ticket counters before hurrying them to the one with the shortest line. "I'm fine. If you'd like you can borrow one of my shirts to sleep in for the duration of our trip."

"One of your shirts?" Molly asked and felt herself flush. Sherlock was so much bigger than her, one of his shirts would feel like a night shirt. It would dwarf her, forcing her to roll up the sleeves, the bottom hem hitting her thighs as she slid between the sheets and- No. None of that. She was here to be Sherlock's friend, dammit. There was no fantasizing about sex when it came to friends. "No, ah, thank you. I'll just pick something up from the shops when we get there."

"As you wish," Sherlock said and hoisted his bags onto the counter. Handing over their IDs and boarding passes he shifted from foot to foot as the man tagged their bags and smirked at them over the counter.

"Women, eh?" the man smirked. "They can't help but take their entire wardrobe with 'em no matter where they go."

Eyes narrowing, Molly bit her lip. "Actually-"

"Quite," Sherlock said, snatching the boarding passes back from him. Handing over her ticket, Sherlock placed a hand at the small of her back and hurried her towards security. Shivering, the press of Sherlock's arm against her back and side, Molly bit her lip and mentally recited her mantra once again. Friends. Friends. Friends. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't make Sherlock uncomfortable for the duration of the trip and throwing herself at him would definitely do that! They were friends and friends alone. Friendly friends. Friends, goddamit!

For some reason they didn't have to wait in line for security at all. Flashing something at one of the security guards they breezed through the metal detectors as people stared after them jealously. Angling them towards their gate Sherlock abruptly broke away, turned sharply, and started to head in the opposite direction.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?" she asked, clutching her boarding pass as the man scurried away.

"Gasping for a fag," Sherlock called back, his pace actually doubling until he was nearly jogging.

"I thought you'd quit!" she shouted after him and scowled as the detective quickly shook his head.

"Not. Yet."

Rolling her eyes, Molly sighed deeply and headed for her gate. She and Sherlock were only friends, she couldn't dictate his life and demand that he quit. Yet there was still plenty she could do. A grin crossed her face as she sat herself down and pulled out her mobile, quickly logging into the site she used to access her medical journals. Sherlock Holmes was a man of logic and fact. If she wanted him to quit smoking there was only one thing to do; set him straight using the cold reason of medical science. No matter what happened, she was going to make him promise never to light up another cigarette again. Even if she had to spend their entire flight lecturing him from medical journals to do it.

~xOx~

Molly Hooper was trying to kill him.

Groaning loudly, Sherlock pressed himself against his airline seat and tried to drown out her voice with the sound of the airplane engines to no avail. He tried to retreat to his Mind Palace but that only made things worse. Molly was there as well, but in his Mind Palace the hateful woman was clad in one of his button-up shirts, the top buttons delightfully undone and gaping enough to give him a glimpse of a modest white bra with a tiny pink bow like a bullseye between her breasts.

"Sherlock," she breathed, undoing her hair from her ponytail and letting it cascade over her shoulders. Curling a strand around her fingers she smiled at him through her eyelashes. "I think we should go over these statistics together. While the results show a positive correlation between cigarette smoking and stroke it should be noted that this study was a meta-analysis of thirty-two separate studies, not one undertaken to test the correlation directly. In addition, the confidence interval-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," he hissed, opening his eyes at last to glare at the small woman seated next to him. He glowered at her, pleased to note that she glared at him right back, her eyes on his face and not on the unfortunate condition between his legs. At least this Molly was properly attired, wearing a jumper that featured a kitten - a kitten!- instead of being clad in only his shirt and her knickers. As if summoned from the darkest depths of hell a vision appeared in his mind, the Molly of his Mind Palace swaying before his mind's eye as her fingers unbuttoned the shirt giving him a glimpse of unblemished flesh. Inhaling sharply he focused on the Molly in front of him and not how he wanted to tear that jumper off of her and snog her senseless right then and there. "I'm an adult, Molly. I can make my own decisions about smoking."

Ignoring him completely, Molly turned her phone screen towards him. "I think you'd be interested in this study that I downloaded. It's about strategies to encourage smoking cessation with patients who suffered from previous narcotic substance abuse. I'm certain you know this already, but you can actually use tobacco use as a distal predictor of mortality for long-term narcotics addicts."

Groaning again, Sherlock pinched his brow. The Molly in his mind palace was down to only her knickers, hands covering her breasts as she purred that it was time to start the physical experimentation. This was too much for him. Why had he ever wanted Molly to come along again? He could barely control himself on a plane surrounded by strangers, how could he keep himself from acting like a randy teenager while they were alone? He was supposed to be convincing Molly that he would be an adequate and suitable romantic partner, not proving the vile rumours of Shag-A-Lot Holmes true.

"Fine. Fine! For the duration of the trip I won't smoke," Sherlock snapped, grabbing the packet from his pocket and forcing it into Molly's hands. Slouching in his seat he folded his coat more firmly around him and began to mentally recite prime numbers. "Happy?"

Molly's face lit up like a child on Christmas Day as she gazed down at the packet in her hands. "I won? Really?"

"I wouldn't precisely call it winning," Sherlock said, lower lip protruding. "I would define it more along the lines of my not wasting any further time to your nagging."

"Also known as me winning," Molly said and giggled as she pressed the call button for the flight attendant. As the woman approached, Molly beamed and leaned over him to hand over the half-empty packet of cigarettes. "Could you throw these out please? We shan't be needing them anymore."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slouched harder and pulled out his mobile. As Molly settled into her own seat and pulled out a book, blissfully ignoring him so he could calm down, he purchased a block of wi-fi minutes for the flight and began to take advantage of the plane's internet capabilities. The loading time was painfully slow but as his body ceased to hum and slowly returned to its normal state, he was finally about to put his mind to the problem that still plagued him.

Namely, what to do about their chalet reservations. Initially, the owner of the resort had booked them in adjoining suites, a situation that was ideal when he'd initially considered bringing John but wouldn't do now that Molly was here. Two separate rooms was out, the point of the trip was that they'd be spending time together, but what replacement option would be best? He'd been given several options, but he'd reduced them to two; a suite with a singular king-sized bed or a two-room suite with a bed and a fold out.

Both had their benefits. The two room option would inject a little space, allow him time to relax and process the day's inputs while Molly was a comfortable distance away. They could squabble good-naturedly about who got the fold out, of course he'd take it, then after the relationship had been mutually agreed on and undertaken he could move into the main bedroom and enjoy the delights there.

Or, he could force the issue and have them share a bed. He could just picture it, the way he'd sigh and look at her offering to take the floor and the way Molly would tentatively shake her head no. Every night they'd slide into the same bed, dangerously close together, and they'd lay together facing one another and chatting about the case until they both fell asleep. Then after they awoke, tangled in each other's arms, Molly would raise herself up and look down at him. Without a word all of those long forgotten feelings would overwhelm her and-

Decision made Sherlock booked the single room and smirked his way through the rest of the flight. A driver met them at the baggage claim, taking their suitcases and escorting them to the car. They drove through the dark streets, climbing higher and high as Molly cheerfully remarked about the amount of snow before finally arriving at the chalet. He was still smirking at they checked in, continued to smirk as the bellhop escorted them to their room, but the smirk fell away as soon as the door was opened.

Molly gasped, stepping inside and beaming widely as he glowered at the sight. "Oh, is it a two-room suite?" she asked, grinning at the bellhop. Her shoulders relaxed as she took in the large plush couch and the utter lack of a bed.

"Yes, for some reason you were mistakenly booked into a single room, but management quickly rectified that mistake. I'm afraid that we're unable to offer you adjoining suites at the moment, we're nearly fully booked," the bellhop said. "Will this suit you?"

"I think so," Molly said, looking back to grin at him. "What do you say, Sherlock? Don't worry, I'll take the fold-out and you can have the bed."

Glowering at her, Sherlock dropped his suitcase beside the door and lamented the fact that somehow his every plan for Molly Hooper somehow went to seed. "Yes, this is fine," he snapped and strode towards the sole bedroom. The bed inside was a double. He'd never be able to tempt Molly to share before he first convinced her to undertake a romantic relationship. There would be no sleepy mornings together to help convince Molly Hooper to love him again. "Yes," he said again with a sigh. "I suppose I can make this work."


	4. It Begins

Molly had barely set her things down and folded out the bed when there was a knock on the door. Hesitating, she glanced at the shut bedroom door. Sherlock had vanished behind it almost as soon as the bellhop was gone and she hadn't heard a peep out of him since. There was no way to tell what he was doing in there. He could have been in his Mind Palace or just unpacking, but as the knock came again she decided that she shouldn't bother him and went to open the door.

A middle aged man stood there, his hair balding and his gut protruding, but he was wearing a rather smart suit and a pair of diamond cufflinks that sparkled in the light. He looked taken aback by seeing Molly there, brow furrowing. "Ah, excuse moi. Merci, I thought this was the room of Monsieur Holmes," he said, moving to leave.

"No, no!" Molly said. She smiled at him broadly as he turned back, opening the door further so he could enter. "You've come to the right place. Sherlock is in the bedroom at the moment, I'm his assistant for the case.

The portly little man blinked at her. "You are John Watson?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

"No, I'm Molly Hooper. I'll be acting as John's replacement."

"You're not a replacement for John," Sherlock said, swanning into the room as if the mention of his name had summoned him. Still wrapped in his Belstaf, the tall man eyed their guest for a moment before sweeping himself into a chair and gesturing for the man to sit. "Molly, ring room service and have them send tea."

Rolling her eyes, Molly went to the phone and did just that as the little portly man took a seat on the other chair. "Monsieur Holmes, I am Maurice Leblanc, the one who arranged for you to come here. And thank god that you have arrived. I received another note! Another! There is another crime being plotted against my guests and the police, they have proved useless. Interpol as well, they are useless to help. You, Monsieur, are my only hope."

"I shall see what can be done," Sherlock said airly and held out his hand. "The notes then, do you have them?"

"The police have them in custody, but I have copies for you," Maurice said, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out the papers. He handed them over then sat nervously.

Sherlock studied the papers for all but an instant before his nose scrunched up in distain and he tossed the papers over his shoulder to land on the floor. "Useless. The scribe wrote in calligraphy, a style which greatly interferes with the ability to determine if the writer is male or female and without the originals I can tell you nothing about the paper nor the ink used."

Letting out a swack of horror, the man looked about to faint as Molly picked up the papers and looked them over. Each was a photocopy of a note on card, a looping border on the edges while the beautiful handwriting in the middle read;

__

I will come for the Jewel of Angels at 10 o'clock pm, the evening of the 18th of December.  
~Thousand Faces

"Wait, I don't understand. This jewel thief that we're after invites the police to his crime before it happens?" she asked, flipping to the next page in disbelief. Sure enough, it was another invitation this one for a crime, this one for something called 'The Widow's Tear' that would be stolen on the 20th. The third page was much the same only its date was for the 22nd. Tomorrow. Obviously that one was the crime that Sherlock had been hired to stop.

"Oui," Maurice said mournfully. "The man lurks among my guests and robs them of their most precious gems. He is a monster and will drive me to bankruptcy if he is not caught!"

"If you think he's hiding among the guests, why don't you just have all the rooms searched?" Molly asked. "That should turn up the gems, shouldn't it?"

Snorting loudly, Sherlock muttered something about that being too logical while Maurice gasped in horror. "Mademoiselle, my guests are very respected and influential people. One does not simply treat them as if they were criminals."

"But one of them is a- Nevermind," Molly said with a sigh. She went over and sat on the sofa, looking to Sherlock who smirked at her and turned his attention back to their host.

"Mister Leblanc, you mentioned a new note? Perhaps one you have not yet handed over to the police?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yes, of course," the man said. Patting down his pockets he removed a small envelope, handing it over.

Hesitating, Sherlock sat the envelope upon the coffee table and began to rummage through his pockets. "When did it arrive?" he asked, removing a pair of gloves and his magnifying glass from his pocket.

"Moments before I learned that you yourself had checked in," Maurice said, sounding and looking miserable. "It was how I knew to ask my staff if you had arrived."

Eyebrow raising, Shelock snapped on the gloves and carefully picked up the envelope. He turned it this way then that, inspecting it in the light. "Expensive," he murmured. "Possibly bespoke. Has anyone looked into the paper manufacturer?"

Maurice blinked. "Should we?"

"Yes. Based on the weight and coloration of the paper your thief is purchasing their cards from a high-end provider. I would have to test the chemical composition to determine which one, but from it's appearance I would suspect an American brand, perhaps Dempsey and Carroll or Mrs. John L. Strong."

"Does it really matter where the card's paper was made?" Maurice asked peevishly. "I don't see how this is relevant."

"It's relevant as many of the higher-end boutique stationery companies only take bespoke orders in their storefronts and, in the case of Mrs. John L. Strong, their only physical location is in New York," Sherlock said. He cast a smirk over to Molly, the smile widening as he took in her rapt attention before looking back to their host. "Thus, if we identify the paper maker we can identify what other countries our Thousand Faces thief has been to recently."

Opening the envelope at last, Sherlock extracted the card and cast his eyes over it. "As for the rest, there is little that I can tell you," he said, passing the card to Molly.

She scrambled for a glove, snapping one on before she took the card. The pretty border was the same around this card but this one read;

__

Salutations to Mister Sherlock Holmes. I do hope you'll enjoy my little game.  
~Thousand Faces

"Really?" Molly asked, handing the card back. "There's nothing you can tell?"

"Hardly anything," Sherlock said with a dramatic sigh. "All I can tell you is that the note was written in a rush, that the thief has considerable disposable income, they are right handed, and the thief is most definitely one of the other guests at the chalet."

Heart pounding, Molly tried to remind herself to breath, taking in a huge gasp of air. "That's… that's amazing, Sherlock. How did you know?" she asked, leaning in.

Sherlock smiled at her, eyes seeming to sparkle. "It was elementary, my dear Molly. The speed in which the note was delivered is primary importance. Our arrival was not advertised so the thief must have seen us arrive. Possibly we passed him or her in the lobby or we were perhaps observed through a window. In any case the thief had to both see and recognize me, retire to a place of safety, write the note, and deliver it all before Mister Leblanc could be informed of our arrival. In addition, observe the note itself. The copies show a writing that is perfectly composed an orderly, nearly perfect. This note contains letters that are not perfectly formed. The curves are not precisely done, the letters are slightly smudged from being placed into the envelope while still wet, and there is a drop of ink from a fountain pen in the corner. All in all, it would indicate the scribe was in quite a rush."

"Yes, yes, that answers that question and likely the handedness of the writer as well, but how do you know they have money? How do you know they're a guest?" Maurice asked, wringing his hands.

Tearing his eyes away from Molly, Sherlock sat up straighter. "It's it obvious? The ink flow from this pen is evenly distributed and consistent. In all likelihood it comes from a Mont Blanc pen, the majority of which start at five hundred pounds and go up into the thousands of pounds. Additionally, I would like to stress that the culprit is a jewel thief. They're stealing gems that are worth thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of pounds. They can't possibly be keeping it all so many of the gems are likely sold to finance this Thousand Faces' lifestyle. Lastly, what better position is there to be than one of the guests when one is a jewel thief? Staff will be suspected and searched, but a guest? You've already stated they cannot be searched. A guest would also have access to the gems during functions to search out targets as well as being able to blend in with the crowd. Thus, they are most likely a guest?"

Molly's mouth was hot and dry, other parts of her decidedly moist as Sherlock cast a glance her way. "Is there anything you'd like to add, Molly?"

Add? What she wanted to do was kick Maurice out of the room, rip Sherlock's clothes off, and do decidedly non PG-13 things to him, but with a mental reminder that she was his friend she shook her head. "I, ah, think you've covered everything."

"So what do I do Monsieur Holmes? I cannot possibly search my guests. They would be in an uproar," Maurice asked.

"There's only one thing for it," Sherlock said and stood. He offered Molly a hand, helping her from her seat. "I must interview all of the other guests." At Maurice's tight gasp he rolled his eyes. "I'll be discreet of course. It wouldn't do to scare Thousand Faces away before he could be caught."

"Nothing seems to frighten that thief. Not the police, not Interpol, perhaps not even you," Maurice said with a sigh. He stood, ringing his hands as he headed for the door. "Inform me if there is anything for which you need," he said. "These must be stopped, Thousand Faces must be caught. The price is no object, the thefts must stop."

"Molly and I shall do our best, won't we Molly?" Sherlock asked.

Face flushing, Sherlock pressed warmly against her side once more she barely managed a nod walked down the hall to where the rest of the guests waited. "So what do you say?" he asked, beaming at her. "Now that I've dazzled you with my deductions how would you like to interview our fellow guests to determine who might be a suspect."

Dazzle her with his deductions? Now that was a funny way of phrasing things. "I that's a great idea," she said cheerfully. In her mind's eye she was forcing Sherlock to kneel before her, tinsel tying his hands behind his back. She beamed at him, trying desperately to tamp the naughty thoughts down. Way down. Like below imagining what her own grandmother looked naked down. "Lead the way!"

Casting her another look, Sherlock nodded and together they walked down the hall. The game was officially afoot.


	5. Pop Culture

Walking into the lounge Molly realized that the chalet was far larger than she'd initially believed. Instead of a small, quaint room they entered a huge lodge room easily twenty feet tall with massive timber beams overhead and a stone fireplace large enough for someone to walk into. Plush leather furniture was arranged stylishly around the room in little groupings that encouraged conversation and above the roaring fireplace hung the massive head of a male moose, his enormous rack of antlers spreading into the air. It reminded her a bit of a Disney movie actually and Molly found herself humming beneath her breath to the tune of 'no one shoots like Gaston, makes those beauts like Gaston' before Sherlock gave her a look and she stopped, flushing hotly as the tall Consulting Detective peered down at her.

"Sorry," she muttered, looking away.

"It's fine," Sherlock said quickly. He peered down at her more closely. "What were you humming? I'm afraid that I was not familiar with the tune."

If anything she flushed harder, ears going scarlet. "Oh you know. That song about the hunter from that Disney movie?" She chanced a glance at Sherlock who stared back at her blankly. Molly bit her lip. "Beauty and the Beast? The pub song about the berk villain? Gaston?"

He blinked once. "Mycroft and I… we, ah, did not do children's movies."

"No, of course you wouldn't," Molly said, looking away again. She still had issues thinking of Sherlock as anything but fully formed, springing from the earth as the man in front of her, much less being able to imagine him as a child. She had a feeling that even baby Sherlock would have rebelled against anything Disney, preferring to gouge his own eyes out then watch a bunch of animated characters sing and dance about a screen. Did Sherlock even watch films now? She'd never heard him express any interest in cinema and somehow she couldn't picture him sitting quietly with a tub of popcorn watching a flick. She knew from John that he had a mild addiction to trash telly, but she just couldn't picture him watching a film of any sort.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, drawing her attention back to him. "If you feel that my missing that film was an oversight in my knowledge of pop culture perhaps you and I could… partake in the film at a later date? Only if you wouldn't mind seeing the movie again, of course. After the case."

It was Molly's turn to stare, her mouth nearly gaping.

Taking that as a yes, Sherlock nodded promptly. "Excellent. I'll inform John to purchase tickets at a suitable establishment after we return to London."

Shaking her head, Molly reached for Sherlock's sleeve as he turned back to the room proper and the guests who were lounging about. "Sherlock, Beauty and the Beast hasn't been in theater since-"

"Watch where you're going!" an old man in a wheelchair bellowed as he nearly rolled over them both. He glowered up at them through watery dark eyes as he waited for them to move out of his way. "Don't you people know what it means to respect your elders these days?"

"Monsieur Wölfisch!" Mister Leblanc said, hurrying over to the elderly man's side. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yes!" the old man said. "This place is bloody freezing and something must be done about it! It's unacceptable, keeping the temperature so low. Do you want me to freeze to death? Dinner was colder than ice and now this man is blocking me from the fireplace!"

Leblanc laughed, his voice high pitched and nervous as he wrung his hands. "Oh, I'm certain Monsieur Holmes didn't mean it," he said. Suddenly smacking at Sherlock's sleeve until the taller man moved, eyes widening in surprise, Leblanc took hold of the wheelchair's handles. "Here, allow me to-"

"I don't need your help!" Wölfisch bellowed. Striking at the man with a jeweled cane, Wölfisch beamed as Leblanc leapt back with a yelp before wheeling his way towards the fireplace.

Leblanc laughed weakly as he turned back towards them. "That was Monsieur Hercule Wölfisch," he said, voice trembling a bit. "He is one of the chalet's most esteemed guests. He visits every year. It is he who is the proud owner of the Jewel of Angels that Thousand Faces has dared state he would steal which is why the dear Monsieur is so very cross today."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched the old man wheel away. "I'm certain I'm charmed," he said, voice tight with annoyance. Face going impassive, Sherlock turned to Leblanc. "Shall you introduce me to your other guests now? I'd rather find this thief of yours before the deadline if it's all the same to you."

Nodding, Leblanc ushered them forward towards the remaining guests. All in all there were a dozen other people at the chalet for the holidays, each and every one of them incredibly posh in a way that made Molly feel instantly uncomfortable. The woman had a way of eyeing her shoes then stepping back with a frown that let her know that they knew her wardrobe was entirely from the petite section of H&M and they didn't approve. Finding herself wishing that she'd changed into the promised wardrobe or at least put on a nicer jumper, Molly found herself taking a step back then away as Sherlock began to grill the guests, seemingly at ease with the fact that he was addressing the guests by titles such as 'Lord' or 'Countess' with the ease as if they were 'Mister' or 'Missus.'

Stepping away further, Molly went to the corner of the lounge where there stood a massive, neglected looking bookcase. It was easily twelve feet tall, filled neatly with matching blue leather bound books with silver titles, but there were no gaps, no holes in the display. Really the shelves looked as if they were there just for the appearance, especially since there didn't seem to be any way to reach the higher shelves. Unless you were going to climb the bookshelf itself that was. Which Molly felt would make her even more loathed by the guests then she was already. Rounding a high, wingback chair Molly moved to sit down with a polite voice quietly cleared its throat. Jumping, Molly whirled about to see an owl speckled man smiling kindly up at her.

Squeaking a little she jumped back, face flushing. "Oh I'm so sorry!" she gasped, her hands clenching. "I, uh, I didn't see you-"

"Don't trouble yourself with it, my dear," the man in the chair said, still smiling at her. "The light in this corner is rather bad, terrible for reading I'm afraid, and really I'm afraid that I was trying to hide a bit. I'm sorry to say that I find the other guests rather tedious, but there's a fault in my room's heating and so I've been forced to stay here with them until the repairs are made."

"Sorry," she said again automatically and took a step back. "If you want some privacy I can go, I mean I didn't mean to bother you."

"Not at all," the man said and gestured to the seat across from him. "I would appreciate some good conversation. At least, if you wouldn't mind humouring an old man and talking about something else besides fashion, jewel thieves, or who's sleeping with who."

There was something about the man that reminded Molly a bit of her Grandad, it was probably the tweed jacket and his kind blue eyes, that made her smile back at him and take the seat. "So what would you like to talk about then?" she asked, folding her hands delicately on her knees.

"I find that with a new acquaintance speaking about the weather is always a safe topic," the man said, leaning back into his chair. "We're seeming to be having an awful lot of it."

Molly laughed, giggling as she beamed at the man and he beamed back. "Yes, there does seem to be much weather going on at the moment."

The man chuckled as well, folding his leg over his knee. "In all sincerity though, I do believe that we are in danger of being snowed in tonight. The wind was howling quite badly just a short while ago and the snow falling ever so fast. I do hope that the heat in my room shall be repaired tonight or I may be in danger of freezing."

"Is it really that bad out?" Molly asked, head turning to seek out a window. "We just arrived this afternoon and it didn't seem too bad."

"I'm afraid it's blizzarding now," the man said and kindly pointed to a window behind her. Molly turned to look and gasped. The snow was coming down in a way that she'd only seen on the telly before. It was like Game of Thrones really, the snow falling as if they were beyond the wall and White Walkers were hunting them down. The tips of her ears went pink again. Really, did everything have to be a pop culture reference with her? No wonder Sherlock found normal people so tedious. "I do hope that you brought a decent winter coat," the man continued. "From the weather report, we may be snowed in for several days."

"I don't know if I have one or not," Molly said with a frown. "Sherlock said he was going to buy me a new wardrobe to come here, but I haven't seen sign of it yet and-" She abruptly stopped herself, realizing how that sounded as the man looked at her, bemused.

"Sherlock?" the man asked, casting a glance over to where the detective was interviewing a woman wearing a turban and smoking from an ivory colored cigarette holder. "Is that the name of your beau then?"

"Oh no. He's Sherlock Holmes. He's, ah, well, he's a Consulting Detective here to try and catch the jewel thief that's been robbing the guests here," Molly said quickly. "We're not dating, Sherlock doesn't date, I'm here as his assistant."

"Oh, you're also a detective then?"

"No. I'm, ah, um… Well, I'm a pathologist." The tips of her ears were scarlet, she was sure of it.

The man blinked, eyes going wide. "A pathologist? Good heavens, does Mr. Holmes expect someone to die then?"

"No, no, of course not," Molly quickly said. "I'm just a stand in, really. Usually another bloke is here with Sherlock but it's Christmas, and he just had a baby and didn't want to leave London and I don't really have anything to do for the holidays besides run autopsies on drunks or suicides and-"

"Molly," Sherlock's deep baritone interrupted her babbling and she jumped, looking up at the much taller man. His mouth was twisted in disapproval as he scowled at the man in the other chair. "What are you doing over here?"

"Me?" she squeaked, entire face going a bit pink. "I was just talking to Mister… um, Mister…"

"Lord Arnold Leopold," the man said kindly. "But please call me Arny, all my friends do Miss, Molly was it?"

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock provided for her and nodded to the man. "Charmed, I'm sure. I am Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

"Yes, Molly told me," Arny said, rising and shaking Sherlock's hand. "I hear you're going to catch that thief that's been lurking about? Dreadful business, that."

"Yes, well, someone has to make certain that criminals are apprehended, especially since Interpol doesn't seem up to the task. Monsieur Leblanc tells me that an Inspector Ganimard was supposed to be here, he being the primary lead tracking Thousand Faces, but he was quite unable to make it due to the weather."

"How terrible," Arny said, his eyes sparkling. "The weather is becoming quite bad, you know. We're having so very much of it."

Sherlock blinked, frowning as Molly giggled again. "Quite," he said, his brow furrowed. "I don't suppose you would be opposed to answering a few questions Lord Leopold?"

"Please do call me Arny, and of course," the man said, still smiling. "Ask away."

"Very well then. What brings you here at this time of year?"

"What else? The need to get away," Arny said with a sigh. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands upon his lap. "I'm afraid that I'm all alone for the festivities this year. My wife and I have recently divorced and I have no descendents, so instead of haunting my own lonely home this year I decided to try and have a bit of a holiday. I would not have come had I known that there would be a thief and such large weather here though."

Sherlock scowled as Molly giggled again, her eyes bright and focused on the other man. She was supposed to be paying attention to him, not being taken in by another. Yet she'd wandered off when he'd been interviewing the other guests and now she was more smitten by this 'Arnold' fellow than him. This was not going to plan. "Yes, well, have you ever heard of Thousand Faces before your arrival?"

Arny shook his head. "Not until he began delivering those notes of his."

"And your address?"

Arny gave it without hesitation, Sherlock jotting down the address into a little notebook and making a mental note to have Lestrade run all of them to determine if any of them were false. When he looked up again, Arny was focused on Molly once more, his smile bright. "So tell me Molly, do you ski at all?"

"A little," Molly said, winding a lock of hair around her finger in a way that Sherlock found most alarming. She'd only done that when speaking to him in the past. "I haven't done it in years though, so I'm probably still quite rusty."

"If the weather ever becomes less, I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me on the slopes," Arny said, leaning forward a bit. "I'm afraid it's been years for me as well and I would love someone to practice with."

It struck Sherlock that there could possibly be a double meaning to such an invitation and he cleared his throat loudly before Molly could answer, shooting a murderous glare to the other man. "I think that's enough for now. Come along, Molly. Your bags have certainly arrived by now and we need to make certain that everything fits."

"Oh, really?" Molly asked, looking a bit disappointed. "Can't we do that later, maybe after dinn-?"

"No," he said firmly and turned to go. Striding off quickly his shoulders only relaxed when he heard Molly sigh and rise from her chair.

"It was lovely to meet you Arny," he heard her say.

There was the soft sound of lips pursing in a kiss and Sherlock whirled to see that the man had stood and was bowed over Molly's hand, kissing it. Molly was staring at him in a bit of shock, her face an attractive shade of pink that was usually reserved for him. His hands clenched tight. "It was an absolute pleasure, Molly. I do hope that we can chat again soon."

"U-until then," Molly said and hurried after him as he stalked back towards the door.

Sherlock stomped through the halls, Molly practically running after him until she finally called out, "S-Sherlock, wait! You're going too fast for me!"

As if it turned a switch in him, Sherlock abruptly spun about and glared down at her. "He's too old for you," he snapped.

Blinking rapidly, Molly frowned as she slowly approached her. "Who? Arny? Sherlock, I've only just met him."

"Yes, and he's already inviting you to go skiing," Sherlock said, drawling out the words as if there was something scandalous about the sport. "Watch out, or he ask you to be his fourth wife."

"What?" Molly blinked as Sherlock turned again, stomping down the hall until he was standing in front of their door. As he began to pat down his pockets looking for the key, Molly reached out and grabbed the fabric of his sleeve, stilling him instantly. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"He was obviously flirting with you," Sherlock said, staring flatly at the door. "He's clearly over seventy years of age, Molly. I didn't think you were attracted to men like that."

"Men like what?"

"Men who are only good for dying off quickly so you can get their money," Sherlock said, voice bitter. "I didn't think you were so shallow."

Not certain if she was being insulted or not, Molly decided to just brush the possible insults aside and instead laughed. "Sherlock, what on Earth are you talking about?"

"Lord Leopold," Sherlock said, his entire body stiff as a post as he pivoted to glare at her. "He invited you skiing."

"Yes. And?"

"He wants to have sex with you."

Molly laughed harder, shaking her head. "What makes you think that?" As Sherlock's brow furrowed and he scowled she beamed up at him. "He was just being nice, Sherlock. And even if he did, which I don't think he does, I wouldn't do it. Arny's sweet but he reminds me a bit of my Grandad."

Slowly, Sherlock's scowl melted off his face as his entire body relaxed. "He does?"

"Yes. Tweedy older gents don't really do it for me anyway," she giggled.

"Oh," Sherlock said. His eyes drifted shut for a moment and when he opened them again there was a strange look in his eyes. "So what sort of man is your type th-"

Abruptly their room door opened. Molly blinked then gaped as the wood swung open to reveal a tall blond woman, a viable living Barbie standing there. She was nearly as tall as Sherlock, her hair a shimmering golden yellow that Molly had only thought came out of a bottle with blue eyes like the sky and angular cheekbones that put Sherlock to shame. Dressed in only a tiny pair of boy shorts and a tank top she frowned at the two of them and crossed her arms, her breasts swaying a bit as she inadvertently pushed them up. There was no way those could be real, not with a waist that tiny, could they? Molly crossed her arms as well, trying to remind herself she was perfectly proportional and stomped on Sherlock's foot to make him stop staring.

"So, are you my room service?" the woman asked, frowning as she gazed at the two of them. Her voice was deep and accented with Swedish. "I am, how do you say it, knackered and starving. If you have not brought my food I may be forced to resort to cannibalism. I think I will eat you first, you look like you may have enough meat on you that I may survive the night," she said, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock was still staring and Molly kicked him in the shins again, hard. As he winced she crossed her arms tighter, reminding herself not to be hurt. It's not that she didn't know that Sherlock was a breast man. He'd insulted hers at that dreadful Christmas several years ago and he'd been attracted to both Irene Adler and Janine. The two of them were just friends, she reminded herself crossly. It didn't matter if Sherlock found her attractive or not.

Shocked into action, Sherlock glared hotly at the woman in their room. "Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?" he demanded.

The woman blinked and reached into her bountiful cleavage casually as if she was plucking something out of her pocket. Removing a badge she flashed it at the two of them before tucking it back away as if it were nothing. "I am Inspector Gunna Fahlgren, Interpol. You are?"

"Sherlock Holmes and this is Molly Hooper. We've been engaged to-"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Gunna repeated and her eyes lit up in delight. With a squeal she threw her arms around them both, hugging them tightly to her chest. Sherlock sputtered in horror, trying to pull away as Molly found herself with a face full of natural chest as the woman bodily lifted the both of them at the same time from the floor and spun them around. "How wonderful! My new roommates!"

"Roommates?" Sherlock bellowed and Molly felt like joining them as they were released.

"Yes," Gunna said, eyes sparkling. "I am full of all of the excitement possible to be working with you both. Please come in, we have much to be talking about." With that, she turned about and and went back into their room, a spring in her step as she headed for the bedroom.

Sherlock and Molly glanced at each other before following her in. As Molly shut the door behind them both she sighed. Well, at least nothing with Sherlock was ever boring.


	6. A New Challenger Approaches

To Sherlock's immense relief the vulgar woman who'd declared them roommates wrapped herself in a dressing gown as they entered the room before turning back to face them. Nothing was going to plan, he thought to himself crossly as he went to a seat and took it, wrapping his arms around his knees as he glowered at her. First Molly had wandered off missing his rather stunning deduction of Lady Catherine de Burgh, then he'd found another man flirting with her, and now this, this creature was in their room. How the devil was he supposed to seduce Molly when there was interlopers at every turn? Especially partially clothed witnesses who infringed upon their room and was now saying that they were roommates? As if he'd ever agree to such a thing!

And from the look on Molly's face she wasn't happy either. His pathologist had gazed an awfully long time at the terrible woman's breasts and now was steadfastly looking at nothing, her shoulders hunching in a way that was subtly hiding her own chest. Really, Molly had nothing to be ashamed about but with a half-naked lingerie model in the room his work to convince Molly that he desired her desperately would only become more difficult.

Casting his glare back at the cause he scowled at her as the woman - what was her name again?- tied the dressing gown shut and plopped herself onto the sofa. "Who the devil are you again and why are you in our room?"

The woman batted her blue eyes at them before looking to Molly. "Did I not say? I am Gunna Fahlgren. From Interpol? I have been sent as the inspector in charge of this case."

"I was under the impression that an Inspector Ganimard was in charge of the case," Sherlock drawled, still glaring at her.

"Yes, but he is on holiday due to Christmas only being a short ways away," Gunna said, waving a hand. "He is French, you know, and enjoys his holidays. While I am Swedish so I-"

"Enjoy waltzing about underdressed and interjecting yourself into other people's plans?" he snapped.

Instead of taking it as the insult it was, Gunna beamed. "Yes! Also, drinking and many different kinds of herring. I am, what do you call it, a stereotype!" she laughed loudly and to his horror, Molly smiled along with her. "And you are Sherlock Holmes. I am very glad to meet you. I have been reading your blog and found it most interesting."

He twitched and despite himself found his guard lowering. "Oh," he said, quietly. "I see. And what, pray tell, did you think about my study on tobacco ash?"

"Ash?" Gunna asked, blinking. She looked puzzled for a moment, tilting her head to one side. "I am sorry, I do not recall that post. I did have a question for you though. My Mormor, my grandmother, she raised me in the country and I was homeschooled so my English, it is not so good. Pray tell me, what is a Geek and how does it help with interpretation?"

Sherlock scowled at her hotly, eyes blazing as someone knocked on the door. Leaping to her feet, Molly laughed loudly and made for it. "Did you say something about room service?" she asked loudly as she hurried for it. "I hope you ordered lots, I'm afraid I'm starved."

Frowning, Gunna stood and went to join her. "I really ordered enough for me, but we can share if you are hungry."

As the two women went to open the door, Sherlock sulked into his seat and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Molly was supposed to be a mass of nerves and sexual tension by now, well on her way to loving him once again the way she had before. Right now they were supposed to be talking about the case as he placed their own order for room service, her eyes bright and on him as he strode about the room and smiled just at her.

They'd eat together in candlelight, him stealing bites of her food to make her blush. The wine would be sweet and plentiful, the two of them imbibing before he suggested she go try on her new clothes. Molly would go into the bedroom and return in the evening blue gown he'd picked out just for her to blend in with the awful guests they were stuck with. Her face would be flushed from wine and pleasure as she twisted her hands, protesting that it was too much. Insisting that it wasn't he'd stand, approaching her slowly.

Her eyes would widen as he stepped closer, her hands ceasing to twist as he rested a palm against her waist. Pulling her closer she'd gasp, resting her hands upon his chest as she met his eyes. They'd be dilated and as he smiled down at her he'd lean down, lips parting to-

Loud boisterous laughter broke through his thoughts and Sherlock glared towards the table. Both Molly and the dreadful Swedish woman were laughing as if they'd been friends for years, his pathologist's form relaxed and her eyes shining as she sipped at her glass of wine. "You've got to be kidding me," Molly said, beaming as she leaned towards the other woman. "What did you do next?"

Gunna cast her a toothy grin and bit the tip of a strawberry. "So there he was, little Lord Alexda Van Gunther, hanging halfway out of his own toilet window with his arse out of his drawers and he's screaming, really screaming at us to get him out. All I am there for is to exercise my warrant and seize his paintings, but he's throwing such a fuss that it is disturbing my men. So I walk up to his pasty arse, seize hold of his ankles, and, as we were in the toilet, I am standing there and put my foot upon the porcelain when-"

"What are you two talking about?" Sherlock interrupted, standing and crossing the room to stand behind Molly. He hovered close, frowning as the woman shied away from him. The plan, he couldn't forget the plan. Further distractions were not an option, he needed for this to work.

"Gunna was just telling me about some of her cases," Molly said, smiling up at him weakly. That warranted another frown. Just a moment ago, she'd been beaming. Why wasn't Molly smiling at him the same way she'd been smiling at this stranger? "She works in art recovery, you know."

"I specialize in recovery of items looted by and during the Third Reich's rise to power, reign, and demise," Gunna said, smiling proudly. "My success rate of reuniting stolen or forcefully sold artworks with their proper owners is quite high."

"So you're in the business of art recovery, not catching jewel thieves. I'm afraid I don't see what help you may be considering all of your thefts happened over a generation ago," Sherlock scoffed. He raked his eyes over Gunna's form, looking for things to deduce but found surprisingly little. It was due to her state of undress, of course. It was difficult to deduce people out of their usual state of clothes and already stripped down and out of the deposits of the day. There was something off about her hands though, a callusing that reminded him of John and Mary though why an Interpol agent would have medical training, he didn't know.

"Nearly three generations now if you consider twenty-five years to be a generation," Gunna said, smiling back at him cheekily. "Every piece of art I recover is a mystery that stretches the imagination, revealing passions and stories not unearthed in some time. To recover a piece of stolen art, I am also recovering a bit of history that had been thought dead and buried for quite some time. I am a reanimator of stories."

His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. "I thought you said your English wasn't very good," he said.

"I had a very clever Mormor."

"While you were in your mind palace thinking about the case, Gunna was telling me that she'd brought some of Interpol's files on other heists Thousand Faces has pulled," Molly said, gesturing to the pile of paper next to the food on the table. "I thought that maybe after dinner we could go through them. Maybe there's a clue to who he really is in there."

The urge to scoff again rose up in him but Sherlock managed to tamp it down. This was Molly's idea. He wanted to impress Molly. Molly would not allow him to court her if she was annoyed with him. "Y-yes," he said instead, forcing a wide smile and sending it her way. "Excellent idea, Molly."

Molly's brow furrowed and she frowned in reply. Damnation. Had he done something wrong? Was the smile too fake? Where was a mirror when he needed one?

"Excellent. Now we just have to speak about sleeping times," Gunna said, leaning back in her chair.

"Regarding that, why precisely do you believe that you are supposed to be our roommate?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing again.

Gunna shrugged. "The chalet is full. The manager gave me a key to this room and told me to share. Now, I have already unpacked my things in the bedroom. I like the right side of the bed."

Recoiling as if he were a vampire and the Swede a holy relic, Sherlock shook his head violently as his mind screamed. "No," he said firmly, hands clenching. "I shall not share a bed with you." As horror washed through his veins the thought struck him that there was someone there he'd very much like to share a bed with. Molly had already offered to take the pull out, but if they were being forced to share then he was certain she'd much rather bunk with him rather than allow some stranger into his bed with-

"We can share," Molly offered freely, not noticing the hot glare he cast her way. "It's can be just us girls. That is, if you don't mind."

"Excellent. You and me we can have the bedroom and Sherlock can have the fold-away," Gunna said, all smiles once more. She winked at Molly and was it his imagination or was the damnable Swede ogling his pathologist in a less than innocent way? "We can share a bed like my sister and I once did. We can do the braiding of hair and speak on our sexual journeys of discovery."

Molly's mouth fell open in a little oh as Sherlock gaped. "R-really? Yo-you and your sister t-talk about that?"

"I am forgetting that you are English. My apologies. I forgot that you English are not very liberated when it comes to the sex," Gunna said apologetically. "We can talk about our orgasms later if it would make you feel more comfortable." Her face brightened. "Instead we can practice a fashion show! Many boxes were delivered while you were gone. All of them had your name, Molly. Did you order many clothes?"

Molly glanced up at Sherlock who was still doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish and shook her head. "No, I, ah. Sherlock bought me those things."

"Then we must see if they will be fitting you!" Gunna declared. Grabbing up the barely touched bottle of wine and two glasses, the blond woman made for the door. "Come along, Molly! We must see if your shoes fit."

Looking up at Sherlock once more, Molly smiled weakly up at him. "I'll, um, try to keep her busy so you can read then," she said, standing. He reached to stop her but by the time he unfroze she was already too far away. "Gunna seems to be very boisterous."

"Molly-" he started.

She shook her head, smiling at him. "Don't worry. She's very nice. I'm sorry about taking your room, Sherlock but I know that you don't really like loud people like her. I'll keep her out of your way while you work on the case. It's what John would do."

Before he could continue to protest she was gone, the door shutting quietly behind her. The one person that this entire trip was for, the reason he'd taken this bloody case in the first place and she was leaving him behind to spend time with a person that he would have rather not shown up at all. There was a high pitched giggle from inside the room and then Gunna's voice said, "Look! Much lingerie! You must try it on!"

He groaned loudly, cupping his face in his hands as he sank into a chair. He'd been planning on being the one to see Molly in those items. More importantly, he'd been the one planning to take her out of them. Glaring at the door once more he snatched a file from the table and began to read. The Swedish woman had won this round, but the game was far from over yet. He'd seduce Molly no matter what and no large chested woman with no concept of personal boundaries would stop him.


	7. Competition

"Molly."

Sherlock's voice was deep, rumbling lowly in her ear and Molly smiled in her sleep. She was warm and content, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and warm breath gusting softly against her neck. Moaning lowly, Molly smiled and cuddled closer to Sherlock, smiling as he grumbled in a barely audible voice and snuggled back. He was so warm. She felt so safe. This was everything she'd ever wanted and more and she hummed in delight as one of his hands traveled up her body to her breast and stayed there, long delicate fingers wrapped around her tender flesh. While the weather outside was chilly and cold this bed was warm and Sherlock was-

Wait, when had she gotten into bed with Sherlock?

"Molly, get up."

Molly's eyes fluttered open and she yelped, nearly falling out of bed as she took in the dark figure looming like a vampire over the bed. Completing the analogy, Sherlock flashed her a toothy smile and thrust his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff. "Excellent. You're awake. Come along, Molly. Quietly now so you don't wake that horrid Swede."

Blinking rapidly Molly glanced down at the arm around her waist only to find the hands attached to it had nails painted what she had been told was a shade called 'screaming orgasm red.' Also, the person in bed currently spooning with her as if she were a living teddy was blond, female, and decidedly not Sherlock at all. She flushed. What had happened last night?

The last thing she remembered was the seemingly endless fashion show as Gunna insisted that she combine different pieces with different accessories. The blond had raided her own suitcase for scarves and hats, looking her over carefully before declaring her irresistible or making further suggestions. Disentangling herself carefully from the clingy blond, Molly smiled fondly as Gunna made a whining noise like a puppy, reaching out sleepily for something before latching onto the spare pillow instead, curling around it like an octopus.

Honestly, it had been a rather fun night. The Interpol agent was like one of those women Molly had seen on the telly, but had never expected to ever be friendly with. Molly had never had much luck with female friends. Growing up she'd been mostly friends with guys, scorning the overly girly frilly girls like Gunna while secretly longing to be part of their club. Growing up without a mother she'd never been one to talk about makeup, fashion, or hair, but Gunna had made it seem like it was all so easy as they'd played dress up together with her new clothes.

A blush crossed her face. She'd never had a friend talk so frankly about sex either. As Gunna had plaited her hair into a complicated knot that she'd never be able to replicate on her own the conversation had drifted to Sherlock of course and, well...

"Am I interrupting your sexual plans for Sherlock?" Gunna had asked bluntly, twisting Molly's hair before pulling out a hair pin. "You must be telling me the truth. If I am, what is the English word, blocking his rooster you must be informing me so that you can enjoy your orgasms."

Molly had nearly choked on her wine, fighting hard to swallow the liquid back down as she coughed hard enough to summon tears. "W-w-what!?" she had stammered, as soon as she was able to calm down. "M-me and Sherlock?"

"You were staring at his arse. I am not of the blaming of you. It is a very fine arse. I would like to take a bite out of it, but if you have a prior claim to his arse I would not be of the standing in the way," Gunna had said, smiling as she took a comb to Molly's hair, fluffing a bit of the braid.

"No. I-I, ah, I don't have a claim on Sherlock's ass. I don't have claim to any part of him! We're just friends," Molly had said firmly. Her face had gone red as a tomato and she had set down her wine glass with a firm click.

Gunna had tilted her head to one side, looking at Molly in the mirror. "Friends don't look at each other in the way that says they are imagining the other person naked," she had said with a smirk. "And on their knees." As Molly flushed harder the blond had leaned in, eyes glinting dangerously. "With a blindfold? Naughty. Which one of you is supposed to be blindfolded for this?"

Sherlock of course, she'd thought. It was the only way to get him down to her level, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to see her coming for him as she-

Nope! Nope, nope, nope. Friends. They were just friends!

Gunna had laughed as she'd stammered that out but, thankfully, had dropped the subject and instead poured them both another glass of wine. Things went a bit fuzzy after that, but apparently they'd both managed to dress in their pajamas before collapsing into bed. A thing that Molly was thankful for as she slid carefully from the mattress and rummaged through her suitcase for a fresh pair of clothes.

"Are we going outside?" she hissed at Sherlock who was waiting impatiently by the door.

"Yes," he snapped back looking exceptionally cross.

Biting her bottom lip Molly finished collecting her clothes and hurried to the loo. She dressed, brushed her teeth, and put her hair up into a ponytail as quickly as she could before Sherlock could get too annoyed by the delay. He was waiting for her by the door as she emerged, her coat and hat in his hands. Briskly helping her put them on he seized her hand in his and yanked her from their room.

"I've been giving it some thought and I've determined the best way to apprehend Thousand Faces," Sherlock said, not seeming to notice he was still holding Molly's hand as he tugged her through the halls of the chalet. "The solution is, of course, obvious. The date and time of the theft has already been schedualed, all we have to do is lay a trap for Thousand Faces when he attempts to steal the jewel. His identity shall be revealed, congratulations all around, done."

Molly frowned a little, trying to pull her hand free but Sherlock's grip was like iron. Sighing she just trotted faster to try and keep up with the man's long strides. "Are you certain that's going to work? I'm pretty sure that Interpol must have tried something like that before."

Casting her a dirty look Sherlock scoffed and popped his collar with his free hand. She hated when he did that. It made her knees a bit weak. "Yes, but I never was the one laying the trap before."

Leading the way down the stairs, Sherlock tugged Molly out the door and into the snow. The chill hit her hard enough to make her gasp and Molly finally pulled her hand away to do up her coat and make certain her scarf was fully wrapped. Snowflakes drifted slowly past as Molly pulled on her gloves, smiling as a particularly fat one landed on her nose. She giggled, turning about before freezing. Sherlock was looking at her oddly and if she didn't know any better she'd say he was-

"Monsieur Holmes!" a man's voice shouted and they both jumped, whirling to see the manager of the chalet, Maurice, struggling towards them with a ladder. He stumbled, cursed loudly in French, before looking up at them again. "Monsieur Holmes, I have brought you the ladder!"

Sherlock smiled tightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Excellent. Lay it up against the roof, just there. I need to inspect a few things before I lay my trap."

Maurice faltered a moment, looking quite useless as he looked up to the rooftop then at the ladder in his hands. With a grunt he attempted to delicately lean the ladder against the building only for it to nearly come down upon his head instead. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stomped through the snow to aid him, the two men struggling mightily to unfurl the extension before getting the ladder in place.

Cheeks red and puffing out white steam, Sherlock looked back to Molly and cast her one of those dreadful smiles that made her heart go pitter patter. "Not afraid of heights are you?" he asked, gesturing towards the ladder.

"So long as neither one of us is supposed to be jumping off of that roof, no," Molly said, looking down to adjust her gloves. She couldn't make eye contact with Sherlock when he was smiling at her like that. His eyes simply lit up in this boyish way that made him look ten years younger and all she wanted to do was sneak him back into her place and snog him senseless on the sofa. That was not the sort of thoughts a friend was supposed to have, she scolded herself firmly. After this was all over and they were back in London she was going to have to download that Tinder app and find herself a decent shag. Or five. Not all of her attraction to Sherlock could be explained by her dry spell after breaking up with Tom, but it certainly didn't help.

They climbed the ladder, Sherlock tentatively putting his weight onto the snow covered roof before deciding it was safe enough and gesturing for Molly to come up and join him. "There's just a few things I have to be certain of," he murmured, heading straight for the nearest chimney.

Molly looked at the deep snow covering the peaked roof and frowned. While Sherlock didn't seem to mind trudging about in the nearly knee deep snow in his boots and trousers, she wasn't interested in going into something that deep without snow pants. Perching on the edge of the roof, feet firmly braced on the ladder, she struggled her notebook and pen out of her pocket and flipped to an empty page. "What are we looking for?" she called back to Sherlock. Staring down at the empty page she debated what she should even write down and settled on a layout of the chalet's grounds and outbuildings. Her perch gave her an excellent view of this side and at least it was something she could do without prompting by the detective.

A muffled shout of excitement rang out from behind her and Molly looked back to see Sherlock hanging half inside the chimney. She hesitated, moving to stand but the detective pulled himself out, smiling triumphantly though his face was stained completely pitch black. "It's impossible for someone to enter this way," he said, beaming at her. "The opening's too small. Additionally there's a fine grating to prevent entry to animals so there won't be any secreting of the jewel up through the flu!"

"Unless Thousand Faces is Santa," she murmured.

"What was that?"

"Nothing! I'm sketching the grounds!"

"Excellent. That may be of some use to us," Sherlock said, tromping back to her.

"Aren't you going to check the other chimney's?" Molly asked, looking up at the now filthy man.

"No need. This chimney is the only one with direct access to the room I'll be laying our trap for Thousand Faces in. I simply had to be certain that there were no methods of entry that I was unaware of," Sherlock said. He tapped at her legs until she moved them before starting back down the ladder. "As soon as you've finished your sketch come join me. I've determined that we shall be using the upstairs piano room as-"

"THIEF!" a voice bellowed from bellow. There was a yelp and Sherlock plummeted from the ladder.

"Mon Deiu!" Maurice cried from below, struggling towards the snowbank where a groaning Sherlock lay as the voice continued to rant.

"Thief! I caught the thief! He was right outside my window! Arrest him! Someone arrest him! He was after my jewels!" the voice of Mister Wölfisch raged from the now open second floor window. "Thief!"

Shoving her notebook back in her pocket, Molly hurried down the ladder managing to dodge the slipper thrown at her face as she passed the window. "ANOTHER THIEF!" she heard the old man shout as she climbed down the final rungs. Both Maurice and now Gunna were standing there, peering down at Sherlock who was laying in a deep snow drift with his arm across his face. "Is he all right?" Molly demanded, rushing over.

"I am not sure," Maurice said, wringing his hands as he bit his bottom lip. "When I tried to help him he told me to bugger off."

Gunna smiled at her, giving her a quick wave. "Hello Molly! I think he is all of goodness, but you are the doctor so you must check. He may need, what does one call it, the kiss of life."

"He's stopped breathing!?" Molly gasped, falling to her knees beside him and attempting to wrench his arm away. Sherlock resisted her though, batting at her with his other arm.

"No, but I find kissing an attractive man is always helpful."

"Don't just stand around there, arrest them!" Wölfisch continued to shout from the chalet window. "They're thieves! They were attempting to steal my jewel!"

"Herr Wölfisch, these are not the thieves!" Gunna shouted back up at the window. "This is Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. They are detectives!"

"Who!?" Wölfisch bellowed back.

"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper!"

"WHO!?"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES AND-"

"Did you say Herlock Sholmes!? What a ridiculous name! Even if he's not the thief, the man must go. I refuse to have a detective named Herlock Sholmes in charge of anything, much less the protection of my jewels."

"His name is not Herlock Sholmes, it's-" The window slammed before the Swedish woman could finish. "Ah. I do not suppose that you would be agreeing to answer to Herlock Sholmes now, would you?" she asked the still prone Sherlock.

"I hate you all," Sherlock muttered from the snow. He hesitated for a moment then finally uncovered his face. It was still covered in soot though now there was a decided smudge that looked suspiciously like a slipper print. "Except you, Molly. I certainly don't hate you."

Quite against her will, Molly's heart fluttered in her chest. "Oh, well... Thank you? I don't hate you either, Sherlock."

He smiled at her and struggled to sit up, struggling in the snow until Gunna reached down and physically picked up the bigger man and put him back on his feet. He glared at her, brushing snow off of his coat. "Yes. Well. There's still much to be done. I need to determine if the piano room is secure, summon the local authorities to provide security for the gem, lay a clever trap, and catch a thief."

"Do you really think you can capture Thousand Faces, Monsieur Holmes?" Maurice asked, still wringing his hands. "The police were present for all of the other thefts, but the jewels were still taken."

"If anyone can do it, Herlock Sholmes can," Gunna said, clapping him soundly on the shoulder. She beamed at him as he glared murderously at her. "I have faith in you. How can I be helping?"

He scoffed, stepping away from the blond woman. "I don't need help from you," he said quickly. "The plan is simplicity itself. I shall only need a moment to ensure the room is prepared and after that it shall only be a matter of waiting until the appointed time to catch the thief. I don't need your help. I do not need anyone's help."

Molly frowned, stepping towards him. She was still a bit worried about him frankly. While the snow had certainly broken his fall Sherlock somehow seemed... off. To be honest he'd seemed off ever since they'd gotten there, since he'd invited her here really. She supposed that he was desperately missing John since she was certainly not filling the consulting blogger's shoes. "Sherlock," she said quietly.

"If we are not needed, then I suppose you shall not mind if we sauna?" Gunna asked, looking thoughtful. At Sherlock's scoffed huff she beamed. "Most wonderful! After you do your checks would you like to sauna with me?"

It was only because she was looking at Sherlock that she saw it. The split second of abject horror that crossed Sherlock's face as his eyes darted from Gunna to her and back again. His entire body stiffened for a moment before his face went decidedly blank, the tension in his shoulders still evident. Well, if she couldn't be a replacement for John, the least he could do was keep as many annoyances away from Sherlock as possible. And despite Gunna certainly being Sherlock's type physically, the boisterous and chummy personality of the Interpol agent was like kryptonite for the consulting detective.

Before Sherlock could do or say anything too terrible, Molly raised her hand. "Actually, ah, I'd love to try the sauna."

Gunna grinned at her, throwing an arm around the smaller woman's shoulders and hugging her. "Yes! Let us go sauna together, Molly. It shall be ever so much fun the two of us together." She cast a sly grin over Molly's shoulder. "Herlock, you can join us after."

"It's Sherlock and you bloody well know it," Sherlock growled, refusing to look at either of them as they headed back to the chalet doors. Yet another delay to his master plan. The day had started out so well, just the two of them on the roof, but between his embarrassing fall due to a wheel chair bound old man and that Swedish woman, nothing was going the way he intended. He was supposed to be escorting Molly to breakfast now, eating with her as he detailed his plans to capture Thousand Faces and-

"Shoot, I don't think I have a swim suit here," he heard Molly sigh as they reached the doors.

Gunna laughed loudly. "Oh you silly British Isles person! One does not need a swimming suit to sauna! We will do it the Swedish way and be naked together."

Letting out a choked gasp Sherlock whirled to face the door only to see Molly vanish through it. The Swede hesitated a moment longer, casting a smirk and a wink his way and Sherlock felt his teeth clench. Ah, so that was how things were. Well, if it was a fight the Swede wanted then this meant war. He had a distinct advantage after all. Between his history with Molly and the woman's preference for men he'd surely come out the victor. Most likely.

Knocking the last bit of snow from his coat, Sherlock nearly jumped as Maurice cleared his throat. The toady man was still there? He'd completely forgot. "Take care of the ladder and ring the local authorities. Tell them to be here by four. I'll secure the room," he snapped and marched off through the snow back to the chalet. The mental image of Molly Hooper, naked but for a towel and Gunna's evil smirk haunting him every step of the way.

Outside the snow continued to fall, dark clouds beginning to roll in as the wind slowly picked up steam.


	8. Dinner and Disasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN- A longer chapter, but I had a lot I wanted to get through in this chapter! Only a few more to go and soon enough I'll finally get to the scene that made me even want to write this fic! Anyway, thanks for all of your kind reviews and I hope you enjoy this next installment!

A bead of sweat coursed its way down the side of Sherlock's face as his mind raced. His eyes darted about attempting to deduce, calculating probabilities, and formulating statistics. Never had so much rested upon a single decision. To his left, an arrow pointing to a possible paradise as the words 'Women's Sauna' mocked him in several languages. To his right a second arrow, this one pointing to a door labeled 'Family Sauna.'

Which one had Molly entered?

The hand clutching the towel shut around his waist tightened as he shifted from foot to foot and swallowed audibly. There were no clues, no obvious signs as to where she had gone. Both doors had been recently used, the signs of footsteps muddled with hallway traffic to disguise which footsteps belonged to Molly. There was nothing, not a fallen hair nor a forgotten earring to determine which way she had gone. He looked from one door to the other, mind humming in annoyance as he attempted to deduce which one would be more likely to be Molly's destination.

He looked to the right….

_Molly gasped as he entered, an arm coming up to cover her creamy breasts as her eyes widened. "S-Sherlock!" she gasped. Her face, her entire body was flushed from the heat and the stream but as she gazed upon him her face went even pinker. Biting her bottom lip in that way that made him want to kiss her she looked away. "W-what are you doing in here?"_

_"I thought you might like some company," he purred and cast aside the towel. Molly's eyes went wide as gasped, lips parting in surprise as he stalked towards her, the predator having finally cornered his prey…_

He shook his head in annoyance. No, no, wrong. Molly didn't stutter anymore and he certainly didn't want her to be his sexual prey. If anything he wanted her to hunt him. He'd been reading such interesting things about knot tying and Molly looked to be the sort who could learn how to be handy with a rope.

Biting his lip he looked to the left….

_There was a moan as he entered the hot room, the steam obscuring the figures on the bench until the door swung shut behind him. The two women tangled together looked up at him, blond and coppery brown hair entwined as brown and blue eyes softened to see him. Molly smiled at him in that knowing way through swollen lips as Gunna nuzzled her neck, hands traveling to dangerous places. Letting out a little giggle then a moan as the Swede's teeth grazed her pulse point Molly reached out for him, her eyes dark. "Sherlock," she said, voice soft and breathless. "I thought you'd never get here. I've been waiting for you to come."_

That was even worse, he told himself firmly as other parts of his body began to disagree. Sherlock Holmes was not the sort to share, well, anything, and he certainly wasn't about to start a romantic relationship with a permanent paramore by engaging in a threesome. No matter how much certain areas of his anatomy were attempting to tell the rest of him to bugger off.

Another moment of hesitation and he practically dove for the left hand door.

"Sherlock?" He froze. "What are you doing here?"

Years of dance lessons abandoned him as he turned, his own feet rebelling to trip him up as he cursed. An arm flew out to brace him against the nearest wall, stopping his tumble. The same arm that had been holding the chalet's distressingly small towel closed for his own modesty. The very same arm that was still holding tight to the towel as he threw it up to detest his fall. He felt a decided breeze down below as both women's eyes settled on an area that was, so to say, below the belt.

Molly squeaked loudly and whirled about, hands flying up over her eyes. "Sorry!" she yelped loudly.

The blond at her side only raised an eyebrow, biting her bottom lip as she sighed and stared, completely unabashed. "Where were you when I was on my sexual journey of self discovery?" Gunna asked peevishly.

Letting out a gasp, Molly smacked the Interpol agent's arm until the woman sighed again and turned away as well leaving him to fumble his towel back into place. He'd gone to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, he reminded himself firmly. His hands trembled as he resecured the towel around his waist. Nakedness didn't alarm him. Which was to say…

"Why aren't you in the sauna?" he asked, scowling as he took in the fully clothed forms of the two women in front of him.

"I… um… well… Gunna said it wouldn't, um, be a real sauna experience without beer-"

"I said a lot of beer."

"-and, yeah, um, since we have to catch Thousand Faces I thought we could wait until, um, after and make it into a kind-of sort-of victory celebration," Molly said, eyes still firmly locked on the opposite wall. He demured to inform her that he was covered. She couldn't see him blush if she wasn't looking at him. "We were just on our way to see if you needed anything."

"Yes, like a girlfriend?"

Gunna hissed and rubbed her side as Molly elbowed her, sending a pouting look at the other woman. "But since you're on your way to the sauna we'll just let you on your way and go back to the room or something," Molly said, sending the Interpol agent a heated glare back.

"I'll come with you," Sherlock said automatically. He needed to spend time with Molly in order to convince her to love him again. That involved spending time with her something that, until now, he'd barely had the opportunity to do. "I was just getting out of the sauna."

Gunna turned on him, eyes raking up his body and narrowing. "You just removed yourself from the sauna? You were not in there long, no? You're not even wet."

"Yes, well, it wasn't my cuppa," Sherlock said evenly meeting her gaze back with one of his own. "Molly, I shall accompany you to the room and we can go over my plan to catch the jewel thief over dinner. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Oh, um, sure," Molly said and slowly turned around. She seemed relieved that he had managed to cover himself again and Sherlock mentally scowled. Obviously his seduction was not going to be as easy as he had originally perceived.

Looking from Sherlock to Molly to Sherlock again, Gunna clapped her hands so loud that Molly jumped. "Well! You two be having the oodles of fun. I must go elsewhere. Yes, far elsewhere and I shall not be of the returning time until long after your dinner. Molly, do not be doing anything I wouldn't do."

Molly's eyes went wide and she let out a little choked gasp as her panicked gaze rested on Sherlock once more before going back to the horrid Swede. "W-where are you going? Do you have to go now? I'm sure that part of Sherlock's plan involves you and he hates having to repeat himself."

Glaring hard at the blond woman, Sherlock was relieved when she shook her head. "I am sorry! I must be going to a place and doing of a thing that I do not know the English word for. Have fun you two!" With a jaunty wave she turned and hurried down the hallway, practically cackling as she went.

A wave of relief washed through him. Perhaps he had overinflated the Swede's danger to his plans. Maybe she wasn't as bad as he had thought. "Shall we then?" he asked, offering Molly his arm.

Molly eyed his elbow as if it were a viper and took a decided step to the side. "I'll um… I'll lead the way, shall I? Unless you have a hidden pocket in that thing I doubt you have a copy of the room key on you." Face turning scarlet Molly also hurried down the hall towards their room, her ears flaming and her eyes downcast as she navigated the halls.

Sighing, Sherlock followed her. While it wasn't the most auspicious beginning to a dinner date the distraction was gone and now this was his chance to actually start to sway Molly's feelings back towards him. He wasn't about to let this opportunity by him. Mentally running through his clothing options to determine the most devastating ensemble possible he tried not to smirk too hard as Molly led him through the halls. Molly may not have taken his arm, but at least with her in the lead the view was good.

**********

Sherlock was trying to kill her.

It was the only possible explanation.

First there'd been the little disaster in the hallway when she'd seen Sherlock in nothing but the tiniest towel imaginable - and much less than that, oh god so much less, she didn't have to try and imagine any parts of his anatomy now - but then he'd secreted himself away in the loo for what felt like hours only to emerge looking as if he were about to pose for the cover of GQ. It wasn't fair. She was trying so hard to be a good friend to him but then he'd let the confines of the bathroom in trousers so tight they nearly looked painted on - how was he wearing pants or, oh god, was he pantless? - and a blue button up that made his eyes shine glacial blue. With the curls slicked in delicate locks just so and the smell of a sandalwood after shave in the air it was all she could do not to shove him upon the sofa and ravage him completely.

She needed a chaperone. Why the hell had Gunna vanished on her? She had been purposefully using the woman as an excuse to put a little distance between herself and the Consulting Dreamboat in hopes that she could get through this trip without completely embarrassing herself, but now she was abandoned.

Dinner had been hell. She'd been so focused on staring at the straining buttons of Sherlock's shirt to hear much of the plan and she'd surely sounded like a moron as she'd floundered with trying to order her meal. The menu had only been in French anyway so Sherlock had ended up ordering for her in a French accent so flawless it had only heightened her nerves. By the time the meal was over she'd been ready to bolt, but Sherlock had insisted on dessert. Picking at her fruit tart she'd nearly died as Sherlock took a bite of his chocolate souffle and moaned.

All of her hair stood on end, her core tightening as the low rumble echoed across the table. Worst of all was her mind, twisting the sound and repurposing it to a fantasy in a very different settling then the restaurant. One where there were no waiters about and Sherlock was pressing her against a fur rug in front of a roaring fire in a positively sinful way.

"Oh Molly," Sherlock sighed and the words came out of his dream counterpart's lips as well. "You have to try this. It's so good."

To her credit and immense pride she'd managed not to stammer or make a fool out of herself as she accepted Sherlock spooning a heaping helpful of his dessert into her mouth. It tasted like wax to her panicking brain but she agreed it was delightful and offered him a strawberry with far too much cheeriness. Or at least far too cheery for Sherlock's taste as his lips and brow twitched in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to scowl.

By the time dinner was over she was ready to actually run back to their room in an attempt to put some distance between them. Besides, she needed to change her knickers. Yet Sherlock, once again, stopped her.

"Damnation," she heard him mutter as they entered the lobby and the sound of an actual curse word leaving his lips was enough to make her stop. The Consulting Grammar Nazi wasn't usually the kind to swear.

"What's the matter?"

"Look," Sherlock said and gestured to the window. The morning's snow was coming down in chunks now, the sky grey and stormy as the flakes flew past the glass. Approaching the window, Molly frowned as she realized she could barely see the start of the chalet's driveway. The pine trees beyond it were only hazy shapes in the falling snow. "This complicates matters."

"How so? Maybe this is a good thing. If it's snowing like this maybe Thousand Faces won't be able to get here in time to steal the gem," Molly said.

Sherlock shook his head, yanking his phone from his jacket pocket. "No, Thousand Faces is most assuredly a guest here. The theft of the gem will happen, but if this weather continues the local police will not be able to provide security for my trap." Unlocking the screen, Sherlock let out a deep sigh and pinched his brows.

"Is there a problem Monsieur?" Marcel asked, hurrying around the desk to approach them. "You look distressed."

"The cell towers are down," Sherlock grumbled, hoisting his phone.

"Ah, yes, that sometimes happens when we have a storm," Marcel said, wringing his hands. "I am sorry to say it, but I have a message for you as well Monsieur. The constables shall not be able to join us this evening. They are not prepared to risk the mountain passes in this weather when it is not an emergency."

"Just perfect," Sherlock growled, shoving his phone away. "I told you, didn't I?"

"Maybe we can do without them?" Molly suggested tentatively. "I mean, we'll be spreading ourselves a bit thin, but I'm sure we can do it."

"I suppose. Originally I was going to have the police guard the gem and power box, but we'll have to do it now," Sherlock muttered. He checked his watch then sighed once more. "There's not much time left, just over four hours to finish preparations. Marcel, go fetch the gem and bring it to the upstairs piano room. Send someone to find that Swede and round up the staff as well. Thousand Faces will be stealing the gem in a matter of hours, we have no time to lose."

Marcel nodded and hurried away as Molly followed Sherlock back up the stairs. She vaguely remembered that she was supposed to be making rounds with Sherlock all through the theft attempt but if the police weren't going to arrive in time… "What do you need me to do?" she asked, putting her best face forward.

"You and I shall be stationed in the piano room guarding the gem," Sherlock said shortly. "I need someone I can trust in there and a second pair of eyes to ensure that Thousand Faces doesn't get by us."

Ascending the stairs, Sherlock brushed into the piano room and walked it quickly doing the final checks. "Yes, it still can be done," he said, starting to smile. "We'll put the gem on the table, here. Molly, I want you by the fireplace keeping an eye out on the door and the window while I'll stand here and-"

The door opened, a flash of blond poking her head in. "You wanted to see me?" Gunna asked, beaming widely. She waved at them both. "Hello Molly! How was your dinner?"

"It was delightful," Sherlock said, answering for her. "The local police can not arrive due to the storm so we'll be on our own. Gunna, I need you to go down to the equipment room and guard the electrical box. We cannot allow Thousand Faces to cut the power."

"Ja, ja, I can do that," Gunna chirped. She mock saluted them with a giggle. "This is very exciting, is it not? This drama, it does not happen in art recovery. The most that happens is that someone tries to run with their stolen picture or-"

The clock in the piano room clicked loudly and then began to chime nine. Sherlock froze, suddenly turning towards it, his eyes going wide. "What time is it?" he breathed.

Molly pulled out her mobile as Gunna checked her watch. "I have 6pm," she said, biting her bottom lip as they all stared at the clock.

"My watch has stopped," Gunna said with a frown. She undid the band and held it up to her ear. "That is strange. I just replaced the batteries last month."

Sherlock darted to the window, yanking it open and practically diving out of it. Letting out a yelp Molly dove for him, grabbing his hips and stopping him from tumbling out the window as Sherlock held his mobile high into the sky. The snow whipped past them, quickly chilling her to the bone as the wind howled around them. At last Sherlock pulled himself back inside, slamming the window shut behind him. "It's nine o'clock," he said, staring at his mobile. "I managed to briefly get a tower connection and the time updated. It's nine o'clock. Someone changed the time upon my mobile and watch."

Molly bit her lip. "I don't understand. Who would have access to all of our-"

"That doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped, thrusting his phone away and ripping off his suit jacket. "It's nine o'clock. I thought we had four hours to prepare and now we have less than one. You! Swede! Get to the equipment room and make sure the power isn't cut. Tell Marcel to fetch the gem and bring it here at once. We have moments to spare!"

Suddenly far more serious Gunna nodded and raced from the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Sherlock ran his hands through his curls, taking a deep breath. "This is not what I expected," he muttered, more to himself then to Molly. "Thousand Faces broke into our rooms last night, changed the times on all of our watches, no, for the entire lodge. Except this sole clock since he knew I would be preparing the rest of the chalet first before I came to this room. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I've been distracted. He's been playing me for a fool."

"Sherlock, it'll be okay," Molly said. Hesitating only a moment she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, jumping a little as he suddenly looked at her. His eyes looked so blue they were nearly unearthly. "You'll catch him. I have faith in you."

For a moment Sherlock didn't even seem as if he were breathing but then he nodded sharply and straightened. "Yes. It was an impressive move, but Thousand Faces is going to have to do more than that to trick me. The plan will still work."

There was a gasping huff by the door and Marcel burst in, wooden box in his hands. "Monsieur Holmes! All of the clocks! They have chimed nine! Just a moment ago we were only approaching six!"

"I know," Sherlock snapped, seizing the box from his hands and carefully setting it on a low table in the center of the room. "We've been outmaneuvered. With the police not here and moments to spare we're going to have to improvise. I want you to install a bellhop outside the door and tell the rest to spread through the chalet. We need as many exits possible covered to ensure that Thousand Faces will not be able to escape."

Nodding frantically Marcel raced from the room, shouting for his staff the entire way back down the stairs.

Going to the door Sherlock carefully closed it then locked it. Hurrying back to the box he sighed when it turned out that it was already locked before quickly turning it this way then that upon the table. Nodding in satisfaction he looked over to Molly. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Licking her lips, Molly took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes."

He smiled at her, eyes crinkling. "Good. By the fireplace now if you please. If you feel like wielding a poker would help you relax I wouldn't dissuade you."

Smiling weakly at him, Molly did as he said, picking up an iron poker before going to stand by the fireplace mantle. Tensely they stood together, Sherlock poised near the door with his eyes on the knob as her own eyes darted from the door to the window and back. The minutes ticked down too quickly and soon enough the clock began to chime ten o'clock.

She swallowed heavily, eyes on the hands as the clock chimed.

"This is it," Sherlock muttered, his entire body tensing. "If Thousand Faces is to make his move it shall be… now-"

The clock chimed ten and the room plunged into darkness.

Sherlock cursed. "That stupid, useless, Swedish-"

The door burst open with nearly explosive force and a bright white flash of light so strong it was blinding. Molly gasped and cried out, covering her eyes as she automatically reeled back. Hitting the wall hard she gasped again as she toppled and fell. She heard Sherlock shout her name and then a sickening thud. In the darkness, further blinded as she was she heard a crash and a bang and then the sound of footsteps running away. There were shouts from the hall, a garbled scream, and then the sound of glass breaking.

Heart racing, Molly panted as she slowly uncovered her eyes. It was still pitch black in the little room and spots danced before her eyes as she tentatively got to her knees. "S-Sherlock?"

"Here," Sherlock groaned. Crawling towards the noise, Molly managed to find his hand and grabbed it, almost not surprised when Sherlock suddenly pulled her tightly into his arms. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes, I think so," she said, wrapping her arms around him as well and holding her tight. "What was that?"

"Flash grenade," Sherlock said, resting his chin upon the top of her head. He slowly rocked them back and forth. "They usually don't leave lasting damage. I do believe that I'll need to see a dentist after this though. I was struck by something heavy in the jaw. I fear a tooth may be loose."

Gasping, Molly jerked back. She reached for him in the darkness, cupping her face in her hands. "Oh god, Sherlock. Are you alright? Are you feeling concussed? How hard did he hit you?"

Sherlock chuckled lowly and pressed a kiss to the palm of Molly's hand. Her heart leapt in her chest as her entire body froze, not even daring to breathe. "Oh Molly Hooper. I knew you cared."

"Wha-what's that supposed to-"

The lights suddenly came back on, the both of them hissing in pain and jerking back as their eyes watered. As if the light had released him from his strange mood Sherlock growled and got to his feet, going over to the overturned low table and shattered wooden box. "Well this was an unmitigated disaster," he growled, going through the pieces. There were shouts and the sound of running footsteps coming towards them as Sherlock used a pen to carefully sort through the shards. "I told that woman not to allow the power to be cut. She had one job to do. If she had managed it we-"

"Are you a doctor!?" a bellhop shouted, bursting in through the broken door.

Rubbing her eyes, Molly nodded and shakily got to her feet. "Yes, I'm a doctor. Who's been hurt? What happened?"

"It's the Interpol agent," the bellhop said, his eyes wide and panicked. "She hit her head and she's bleeding a lot!"

Molly cursed, trying to shake her mind back into action as she hurried towards the door. "Where is she and how bad is it?"

Before the man could answer there was a loud wail and Marcel was pushing his way into the room, his eyes wide and his face as white as a sheet. "Disaster! I'm ruined!" he wailed, yanking at his hair as he staggered into the room.

"Yes, the jewel's been stolen but I shall recover it," Sherlock said, not even looking up from the box. "There's no need for such-"

"Not that!" Marcel wailed. Gasping for breath dramatically he suddenly fell to his knees. "Thousand Faces… he…. he…."

Sherlock looked to him sharply, eyes narrowed. "Out with it man!"

_"Monsieur Wölfisch is dead!"_


	9. Time of what?

“I’m fiiiinnnnnnneeee,” Gunna slurred as Molly shone a light in her eyes, checking her pupil dilation. The Interpol agent’s pupils barely reacted and Molly sighed as the other woman smiled up at her loopily. “Did we catch that _skit_ bastard?” she asked for the third time.

Lord Arny Leopold gently patted Gunna’s hand, shaking his head. The kindly older gentlemen had politely refused to leave the agent’s side throughout the examination, insisting that the woman was his responsibility as he’d been the one to find her bleeding on the lobby floor. Apparently the Interpol agent hadn’t even made it to the equipment room before she’d been attacked from behind. Though in her loopy state there was no telling if she’d actually seen her attacker or not. “I’m sorry my dear, but no. Thousand Faces has apparently escaped.”

Gunna laughed, snorting as she covered her mouth with her hands. Leaning too far back she nearly fell before being gently righted by Arny and Molly. “ _Stygg gubbe!_ ” she said, dissolving into Swedish and giggling occasionally as she sat on the floor.

Sighing, Arny looked to Molly. “How is she?” he asked, worry filling his eyes.

“She has a concussion,” Molly said, settling down her light. Carefully she began to pick up bloody pieces of gauze that she’d used to try and staunch the bloodflow that had come from the woman’s head. “I’d like to see her get to the hospital and maybe get some butterfly stitches as well for that gash on her head. It’s completely superficial, but there’s a chance it might scar if she’s not careful.”

“ _Far,_ ” Gunna murmured, leaning against Arny’s shoulder. The man wrapped an arm around her automatically and she smiled happily, eyes sliding shut.

“No, no,” Molly said, reaching over and shaking her awake. The blond whined and pouted, trying to push her away before grumpily sitting back up. “I’m sorry, Gunna but you can’t sleep right now. You have to stay awake. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you for the night to make sure you don’t get any worse.”

“I can keep an eye on her,” Arny volunteered. His blue eyes narrowed in concern as Gunna hummed what sounded like a children’s rhyme and began to sway. “It’s the least I can do and, well, I’ve heard a rumour that you may be needed elsewhere. There’s apparently been another injury?”

Molly frowned, shoving the rest of the bloody gauze into a plastic bag and snapping off her gloves. Face grave she rubbed her forehead and looked to Arny. “I’m afraid it’s a lot more serious than that. Mister Wölfisch was murdered.”

Arny’s eyes went wide before hardening. “What? How?”

**********

“The neck’s been broken,” Sherlock murmured, inspecting the crumpled body. The old man’s face was twisted and slack, his eyes wide in horror from the last spasms of his body before he’d died, fingers curled into claws. Breaking a man’s neck wasn’t like in the movies. Not only did it take far more force than expected, death was hardly instantaneous. The old man had likely suffocated to death, though he’d need Molly to complete the autopsy to know for certain.

He scowled as a snowflake drifted past, waving the air until it redirected from the body. The room was freezing, snow blowing in as the wind howled. The intruder had used Wölfisch’s wheelchair to smash the window and it was already interfering with his crime scene. With the temperature of the room rapidly falling he’d never get an accurate time of death if Molly didn’t hurry up and finish with the Swede.

From the doorway Marcel whimpered and wrung his hands. “I-I had one of the boys attempt to ring the police but the phone is out.”

“Due to the storm or has the line been cut?” Sherlock asked, raising one of Wölfisch’s hands and checking the nails. No sign of a struggle. The old man had either been taken unaware or otherwise hadn’t put up too much of a fuss.

“I-I-I don’t know.”

“Have someone do the preliminary checks,” Sherlock said. Standing, he turned about to gaze gravely at the simpering man. “After you’ve done that you can return here and tell me why you neglected to put that ladder away even though I expressly told you to do so.”

Going as white as the snow, Marcel froze and his eyes darted to the broken window where the damning gleam of silver aluminum could be seen. It was Thousand Face’s escape route and most likely why the thief had even come to this room. “I-I-I-I-I-I-It wa-was too hea-heavy on my own a-a-and-”

“Explain yourself later. I have a murder to catch,” Sherlock snapped. Turning his back on him he returned to kneeling next to the corpse, eyes darting over the body.

There was what almost sounded like a muffled sob and then the sound of the French man hurrying away, murmuring to himself in a voice too quiet to hear. Sherlock ignored him, pulling out his magnifying glass to carefully inspect the soles of the old man’s slippers.

“Making friends?” a female voice asked. While he didn’t turn he smiled a bit as Molly entered the room fully, snapping on a pair of gloves and kneeling down on the other side of the body.

“Get me a liver temperature and a cause of death if you would,” Sherlock said without looking up. Instead he leaned in closer to the slipper, eyes focused on a bit of fuzz. Was that important? No, it was from the Persian rug beneath the body. Disappointing.

Molly sighed dramatically. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but you know I can’t get you a liver temp. I don’t have the equipment for that sort of thing,” she said. “I’d need a scalpel and a long enough probe to reach the liver to do that.”

“Have someone fetch you a kitchen knife and remove the liver. You can use a regular thermometer then. Or perhaps a meat thermometer would work?”

She sighed again and he just knew from the sound of her voice that she was glaring at him. “I don’t think the local medical examiner would appreciate my dissecting a corpse upon a Persian rug, Sherlock. Besides, we know when Mister Wölfisch died. We both heard him scream.”

“Yes, that’s what the killer wants us to think,” Sherlock murmured.

“What was that?”

Snapping his magnifying glass closed, Sherlock looked up to Molly and beamed. “Tell me, what’s the cause of death?”

To her credit and immense pleasure Molly’s eyes instantly went to the man’s neck but the woman didn’t immediately say anything. Instead she leaned over the body and taking his head in both hands carefully tested the break. “His neck’s been snapped,” she said, placing the head back in it’s original position and bending over the body to check his eyes. “The break looks to be somewhere around the third cervical vertebra, but I’d want an x-ray to know for certain. There’s sign of petechial hemorrhages in his eyes and what looks to be a little foam at the side of his mouth so I would say that the actual cause of death was most likely suffocation due to the damage to his spinal cord. The brain’s connection to his lungs was most likely severed sending his respiratory system into paralysis.”

He wanted to kiss her. Actually, he wanted to seize her in his arms, shove her against the nearest wall, and take her where they stood but even he knew it would be more than a bit not good to have Molly at a crime scene. Swallowing carefully he attempted to remind his body of that as his eyes drifted back down to the corpse. “Exactly,” he said, smirk crossing his lips. “The old man suffocated to death. That’s not exactly an instantaneous process but when he was found less than five minutes after his supposed cry he was already dead.”

“Suffocation could happen in five minutes,” Molly said, with a frown. She shifted on her knees to get a better look though, gloved hands reaching out to carefully probe the old man’s eyes and jaw. She looked up sharply at Sherlock, her eyes going hard. “Rigor mortis is already starting to set in. Considering how cold the room is, rigor should be delayed but his jaw and eyelids have already started to stiffen though the rest of the body seems to still be flaccid. Provided the room was at a more regular temperature that would indicate that death actually occurred nearly two hours ago, more if the window was broken at time of death.”

He grinned at her. “So you see why I need a liver temperature?”

Molly glanced at the broken window and nodded. “Have someone get me a knife and a meat thermometer. I’ll see what I can do.”

Bellowing for a bellhop, Sherlock went to study the rest of the room as Molly got her tools and went to work. Unbuttoning the old man’s shirt Molly let out a grunt as she struggled to get the kitchen knife through his flesh. While the knife was assuredly sharp, it wasn’t nearly up to the quality of one of her surgical scalpels and she struggled for a bit to make a clean enough cut. Finally managing it she eyed the body carefully and inserted the thermometer. To her surprise it actually slid in quite easily, though the thermometer was designed for meat and, well, that’s what she was using it on. Staring intently at the reader she finally pulled it out with a sigh.

“Liver temp is at 33.4,” she said with a frown. Her nose wrinkled as she did the mental calculations. “Assuming the glass broke when we heard it-”

“It did,” Sherlock assured her.

“-then death occurred nearly three hours ago.”

“Two point seven three repeating to be precise,” Sherlock said, flashing her a grin. “Though I will allow that the last half hour with the window broken may have caused the body to decrease in temperature more rapidly.”

Molly stood, carefully removing her gloves as she stood. “So Mister Wölfisch was already dead when we heard him cry out. Why would Thousand Faces want us to think he was killed when the gem was stolen?”

Smirking, Sherlock gestured to the rest of the room. “Tell me Molly, how do you think the old man’s neck was snapped? It takes an awful lot of force to snap the spinal cord and the body is showing no signs of defensive actions.”

Eyes going back down to the body, Molly knelt again and peered at the back of his neck. “I’d want an x-ray to tell you for certain,” she said firmly.

“Yes, that is certain, but what do you deduce?” Sherlock prompted her with a grin.

Molly frowned, eyes narrowing as she took in the wound. “Well, and I really would need that x-ray to be certain, but there does appear to be some bruising here. If I had to make a guess-”

“Don’t guess. Deduce.”

“Fine. If I had to make a deduction I would say that Mister Wölfisch was struck with some force precisely at the neck. There’s no evidence of bruising anywhere else at the neck, but striking someone there is quite unusual. It’s a fairly precise target and if I were trying to kill someone with blunt force trauma I would go for the head, it’s a much larger area. Besides, it takes a lot of effort to break someone’s neck. It may have taken the killer multiple strikes to damage the spinal cord enough to cause death and there’s no guarantee that it would work.”

“The killer was lucky, it only took them two strikes,” Sherlock said, turning back to the wall. His eyes drifted past the assorted decorations before resting upon a decorative ancient looking rifle hanging upon the wall. The wooden stock was cracked. Pulling out his magnifying glass he leaned in and smiled as he found a hair. “He was struck with this rifle, twice in quick succession.”

“Huh. That’s lucky then,” Molly said, standing once more. Suddenly realizing what she’d said she flushed. “N-not for Mister Wölfisch I mean. It wasn’t lucky at all it’s just…. Well, that sort of wound and weapon wouldn’t necessarily guarantee that death would occur. Mister Wölfisch could have survived it with only a nasty bruise if he were the lucky one.”

Sherlock nodded, flashing her a grin. “The killer was prepared enough to be dispassionate in planning on how to kill the victim, but not so prepared that they brought their own weapon. If this was solely a crime of passion, an escape gone wrong after seizing the gem, the killer would surely have struck the head or body as you say. No, instead they went for the neck, a far more difficult target, and one that doesn’t assure the killer of an instant death.”

“So why go after the neck?” Molly asked with a frown. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“No, it wouldn’t to you or I, but our killer most likely has never had any medical training,” Sherlock said, striding back over to the body. “They most likely thought that breaking the neck would instantly kill the man as it does on telly. I would suppose that the killer intended us to think that Wölfisch was killed when he was forced from his wheelchair during Thousand Faces’ escape. A tragic accident due to an unlucky fall. Think about it Molly, why break a window with a wheelchair? There are other items around the room that could shatter a window and none of them have a crotchety old man sitting upon them.”

Molly frowned, eyes drifting from the body to the state of the room to the window. “This doesn’t make any sense. Thousand Faces came in here and murdered Mister Wölfisch hours before his appointment to steal the gem? Why keep the appointment at all then? Mister Wölfisch had the gem in his safe before we brought it into the piano room, why not just steal the gem then?”

“Why indeed?” Sherlock mused. Clasping his hands behind his back he stepped closer to the broken window, peering outside into the swirling snow. The storm was beginning to pass. Excellent. Turning, he smiled widely. “Tell me Molly, how good are you at skiing?”


	10. Mistakes are Made

_The pressure was crushing. In the total blackness Molly whimpered, trying to wiggle her way to freedom and failing to move more than an inch as the pressure bore down upon her keeping her locked in place. She tried to scream, tried to call for help but her own cries seemed dead to her ears. Clutching her fingers together in front of her mouth she closed her eyes tight and began to pray._

_Sherlock…._

_*****_

_**Four hours earlier….** _

"I am not of the liking of this," Gunna said scowling as she helped Molly slide on her gear pack. Taking a step back, the blond Interpol agent tugged the reindeer pelt she'd pilfered from somewhere closer around her body, looking every inch like a mad Viking warrior out of a telly drama and pouted. "You should not be going, Molly Hooper. Tell Sherlock that his idea is full of madness and do not be going now."

Molly smiled at her warmly, tugging her coat sleeves up and over the ends of her gloves before looking around for her skis. "We'll be fine. Sherlock just wants to check a few of the outbuildings for signs of Thousand Faces and try to see if we can find some phone reception. We won't go far. Besides, the snow has stopped for now. If we wait it might come back and then we'll have missed our chance of catching Thousand Faces."

"You are English though," Gunna said, pulling the pelt ever closer. Her blond hair swayed in the breeze as she frowned up at the sky with eyes dark from lack of sleep, her temple still stained from blood. "I should be coming with you. English people, you do not understand winter. The temperature is rising and snow is fresh. This is bad snow time. It is… I do not know the word in English. It is when the snow is unhappy and wishes to be back in the air."

"Melting?"

"Yes… But no," Gunna said looking frustrated. She reached up and touched her head, scowl deepening. "I cannot think properly. It is when the snow is restless and the trolls beneath it roar like a train."

"We're talking of trolls now?" Sherlock asked, striding over. Molly glanced over at him and felt her mouth go dry. He was wearing a navy one piece snow suit, the waistline belted in to accentuate his narrow frame and hips. With his hair a riot of wild curls and a pair of goggles rakishly perched upon his forehead he swaggered between them, his skis and poles upon his shoulder. "Have we devolved into a realm of fairytale now? You certainly must have hit your head harder we initially thought. Are you going to warn of of White Walkers next and tell us that we know nothing?"

Molly stared at her, momentarily shocked out of wanting to shove him into the nearest snowdrift and ravaging him. "You've watched Game of Thrones?"

Sherlock coughed, ears going a bit pink though that was probably because of the snow. "It was on telly once or twice. I just happened to have it on."

Somehow she doubted that, but before she could ask any more questions Gunna scowled and kicked snow at him. "Do not be of the joking! This is very angry snow and-"

"Oh, so now the snow has emotions?" Sherlock asked. He tutted, smirking over at Molly. "Fascinating. I had little idea that dihydrogen monoxide in crystalline structure was capable of rational thought. I'm sure that the scientific world shall be rocked by these folk discoveries as soon as you can find a troll with legible enough handwriting to be published."

Molly glared at him and Sherlock blinked, looking crestfallen for a moment before his attention turned back to Gunna. The Swedish woman poked him on the chest so hard he rocked back on his heels as she glowed at him. "You are full of arrogance, Herlock Sholmes. I pray that the gods are kind to you and do not take it upon themselves to give you punishment."

*****

_It was getting harder to breathe. Carbon dioxide poisoning most likely, she thought helplessly to herself. Focusing hard on slowing her heart and taking deep slow breaths Molly ignored the tears as they streamed down her face._

*****

"Ah, who's angered Gunna so?" Arny asked, stepping aside as Gunna stormed past, her face red and full of fury. "Or do I really need to ask? I would think that only one of you could be described as the 'overly confident son of a cow.'"

Molly sighed deeply, rubbing her brow as Sherlock perked up a bit. "You speak Swedish?" he asked, eyes narrowing a fraction as he shot the older, smiling man a probing look.

"Barely," Arny said with a sigh. "I once loved a Swedish girl with cheeks like apples, hair like honey, and a bum like a Swiss roll, but I was a fool and left her to marry my dreadful wife. By the time I realized how much of a mistake I had made she'd returned to her home country to raise a gaggle of children and I was locked into a prenup so tight that it was forged in Satan's ass crack. But that is life, I suppose. Instead of a fat wife and a dozen fat children I am here with you now, doing my part to help a famous detective catch an even more famous thief. It's all very exciting."

"Could you please keep an eye on her while we're gone?" Molly asked, casting another glare Sherlock's way. "Her head injury was quite severe and she really shouldn't be up on her feet right now. Try to get her to relax a bit and have a lie down. She should be able to nap now as well if she's feeling tired."

"I'll do my very best," Arny promised, smile warming as he gazed at her. "In any case, I found something that I thought may be of use to you." From behind his back he presented her with a small-ish electronic device that very much looked like an old GPS unit. Molly frowned as she took it, noting the tiny screen and the frankly enormous red button. At her confused look Arny's smile grew. "It's an avalanche beacon. In the event you and Sherlock run into trouble out there."

Sherlock scoffed loudly, plucking the device from Molly's hands and tossing it into the snow. "We're not going to need that. I've done a careful study of these mountains and this area hasn't experienced serious avalanches in decades. It's perfectly safe out there."

*****

_"Idiot," Molly whispered to herself. Her head hurt and her body was starting to feel lethargic, the urge to just go to sleep being nearly overwhelming. If she went to sleep though she would surely die. Then again, what were the odds of being rescued in the first place? She was buried under an unknown amount of snow to the point that she no longer knew which way was up or down. She hadn't taken the avalanche beacon, she didn't have any way to dig herself out, and even Sherlock would be unable to deduce where she was buried._

_Biting her bottom lip, Molly let out a low sob. She wondered if her body would be found in the spring so at least she'd be able to get a proper burial. She wondered if Sherlock would come. Would anyone even care if she died today? Well, besides Toby and, being a cat, he didn't really count…._

*****

The ski trip had started out rather peaceful actually. The air was crisp and clean with a hint of the metallic in the air as they broke ground down the mountain slopes. They'd stopped at a small outbuilding first, Sherlock unlocking the door and checking it thoroughly before nodding in satisfaction. "The snow machine is still here," he said, latching but not relocking the door.

"What does that mean?" Molly asked, peering around them. Besides their own tracks there was no sign that any other person had been there but, considering the storm they'd had, that wasn't very surprising.

"Either Thousand Faces had his own transportation off the mountain or, more likely, he's still at the chalet," Sherlock said with a victorious smirk as he pulled out his mobile. He held it high in the air, sighing when it was unable to get a signal.

Molly frowned, shifting in her boots as she shivered a little in the cold. "Shouldn't we go back and warn the others then?" she asked, looking worried. "If Thousand Faces is still there he could be planning another robbery or to kill someone else."

Flashing a grin at her, Sherlock laughed. "Don't be silly, Molly. It's obvious that Thousand Faces considers himself or," he added pointedly, "herself to be beyond reproach. Our leaving the premises is only encouraging their delusion that they've gotten away with the crime meaning that Thousand Faces shall likely relax their guard. When we return later tonight with the local police, Thousand Faces shall have nowhere to run and be easily caught."

"Her- You think Gunna is actually Thousand Faces?" Molly asked. Her brow furrowed as she tried to see it, her mind not being able to match the boisterous and friendly Interpol agent with a cold blooded murderer who had killed an old man.

"Elementary, my dear Doctor Hooper," Sherlock said, flashing her a grin. "The woman's arrival at the lodge is more than a little suspicious. An Interpol agent whom is completely unfamiliar with the case arriving mere hours after we, the ones sent to capture her, arrive? By posing at an Interpol agent she'd be above reproach and completely beyond suspicion, or so she would think. I'm certain that after we arrive in town and ring Interpol her agency will never have heard of her. Additionally, she must have surely manipulated the situation to ensure that she was placed in our rooms to keep an eye on us in order for her to further her plans. It's all very simple when you think about it logically."

Molly frowned again and shook her head. "I don't... I don't think you're right, Sherlock," she said tentatively, uncertain how he'd feel to have his theory questioned. "Gunna did have a rather bad concussion and despite everything I really can't see her murdering Mister Wölfisch. She just doesn't seem to be the type who would murder a man in cold blood like that."

Looking at her in a way that Molly could only describe as disappointed Sherlock sighed and shoved his mobile back in his pocket. "I know that you're fond of her Molly, but really you have to think of these things logically. The woman's presence here makes no sense and she has the means and opportunity to do the thefts."

"She might have had the means and opportunity to do the thefts, but that doesn't give her motive to kill," Molly pointed out stubbornly.

"We'll talk about this later, after she's been arrested," Sherlock said, pulling his goggles back in place. "Now come along, Molly. Hopefully we won't have to ski all the way to town before we get cellular service." With that he took off down the slope through the thick snow, the powder flying up around him as he flexed his way through the snow.

Despite her annoyance, Molly took a moment to stare at his bum before sighing deeply. The terrible, awful, sexual things she would do to that man… If they weren't only friends, that is. Clearing her throat and pulling her own goggles down she gripped her poles tightly. "Git," she muttered before taking off down the slope after him.

*****

_The urge to sleep was almost overwhelming. It was the carbon dioxide poisoning a small part of her brain reminded her as she slowly blinked her eyes open and shut. She couldn't tell the difference between the two, the darkness was too complete. Taking a deep breath she held held it until her lungs burned before releasing it slowly through her nose. She wished that she hadn't been cross with Sherlock the last time they'd spoken. He was so brilliant, so very clever that she hated that the last time she'd spoken to him she'd been cross with him over his deductions. He hadn't deserved that…_

_Even if he had been wrong and a bit of a git._

_Despite herself, Molly chuckled lowly to herself before allowing herself to drift away towards the comforting blackness._

*****

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed as the phone in his pocket chimed loudly in the cold mountain air. Ripping the goggles from his head he pulled out his mobile as Molly slid to a stop by his side. He held the mobile up in the air, turning it this way then that as he searched for a signal. "Damnation, I just had it," he muttered, pushing his way to a nearby copse of trees, holding the mobile up high.

Molly watched him go, digging her poles into the deep snow as she unzipped her jacket. She was too hot, the bright sun warming her to the point of sweating as she'd skied down the slopes with Sherlock. Glancing over at him, Molly smirked a little as the consulting detective tried to use a tree branch to haul himself further up to see if he could get a signal. The snow shifted a little under her feet and Molly cursed, struggling herself to a stop again before reaching back to grab her poles. God, she was out of shape. She hadn't been skiing in years and she was already starting to ache. Hopefully the sauna would already be hot when they got back to the chalet and-

A sound like a gunshot echoed over the mountain. Jumping, Molly looked to Sherlock, her eyes wide. "What was that?"

Sherlock tossed a branch to the ground, cursing again as he tried to pull himself up the tree, his eyes on his goal. "I broke a branch. Nothing to be concerned about," he said.

Snow trickled past her ankles as Molly shifted nervously. "Are you sure? That was pretty loud."

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock said, trying to struggle his way up. The branches were too thin though and he sighed, leaning against the tree as he glanced back her way. "You're being awfully jumpy today-" Sherlock froze, his eyes suddenly going wide.

Molly looked behind her, only to yelp as the snow seemingly fell out from under her. Crashing to the ground she felt snow piling up around her shoulders, the weight of white pulling her downslope as it pushed her deeper and deeper into the depths. Struggling to the surface she gasped and let out a cry as a new wave of snow crashed down over her head. She tumbled within the white powder like a rag doll, getting a brief glimpse of the sky and trees and Sherlock's horrified face as he reached helplessly towards her.

"MOLLY!"

The snow covered her, buried her, and carried her away and the next thing she knew she was in darkness.

*****

_Sherlock…._

_She floated on a dark cloud, her thoughts slowly drifting to pieces around her. Oh Sherlock. She hoped he wouldn't blame himself. Closing her eyes she let herself go and fell into darkness._


	11. Other Views

Sherlock stood frozen among the snowy trees, his eyes wide and blown out. Breath short he clutched his mobile until the screen cracked, the thin glass slicing into his glove causing blood to well up through the cut and splash upon the white snow.

Molly….

_Where was Molly….?_

Mind screaming, heart racing, he kicked off his skis, throwing the poles to the side as he stumbled toward the now still snow. Molly. Molly was in there. Molly had been swept away by the snow, it picking her up and dragging her down like a current in the ocean and now she was gone. Gone, gone, gone… and it was all his fault….

His knees trembled and he fell into the snow, hands digging down through the endless white and spraying flakes everywhere. Desperately he dug as his mind froze but no matter how deep he went there was only more snow. Impossible. He couldn't allow things to end this way. Molly was… Molly was everything. Her death would not be at his hands. It couldn't be. He wouldn't allow it.

Gasping for breath he sat back on his heels and surveyed his surroundings, a part of him struggling for logic while his mind and heart screamed. If Molly died out here today- No. He shook his head firmly. He wasn't going to think like that. He couldn't think like that. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes and opened the doors of his mind palace wide. He was going to need everything he knew, every skill he had to find Molly in time.

When his eyes opened again they were clear and cold. Sweeping to his feet his eyes surveyed the scene, scanning the restless snow. He and Molly had been approximately fifty feet apart when the avalanche had hit. He'd just finished composing a text to Mycroft, a single bar of connectivity his only tie to the outside world. Had he even managed to send it? He glanced down at the ruined phone in his hand and shoved it into his pocket. Unimportant. What had happened after was the important part.

Stomping through the snow, sinking into it up to his knees with every step Sherlock crossed to where Molly had been standing. He gazed down along the snow, his eyes narrowing as he tried to survey for anything out of place. How far could the avalanche had reasonably taken Molly? Obviously she must had sunk into the snow, the lighter powder covering her completely. But how far could she have been dragged along? Where should he start searching? The avalanche had been a reasonably small one but the displaced snow continued on several hundred feet along the mountain. It was too large of an area to search on his own, but he had to find Molly before it was too late. To do otherwise would be unacceptable.

His mind raced as he plundered the rooms he dedicated to physics. While he'd been a graduate chemist, he'd not shirked away from studying the other great sciences. Equations for density and flow raced through his mind, calculating and compounding as he went through the various scenarios. Molly's density and mass ran through his head until, at long last, an answer popped into his head. He ran it a second time, mind racing down the seconds until he received the same answer.

He sprinted through the snow, eyes on a single target. There. There was the ten foot radius where Molly was most likely to be covered. Practically diving into the snow he cupped his hands together and dug, making a deep trench.

Where was Molly? He had to be correct. He had to find her. If his calculations had been wrong…

He couldn't be wrong.

*****

"It is cold and I am still cross. I am not saying that my ancestors were violent people, but I shall say that people have died for lesser reasons," Gunna said, pulling on the coat she'd snatched from somewhere. It looked long and woolen. Suspiciously familiar, Arny thought with a smirk. The Interpol agent was going out of her way her annoy a certain consulting detective. He somewhat approved.

They stomped through the snow together, Arny stopping to press a pair of binoculars to his eyes. "I thought I heard something," he said, scanning the mountain side. "It sounded like a gunshot."

Gunna snorted, pulling the coat tighter. "This is Switzerland. There are many guns here. The military conscripts all much like my country did until recently." She paused and rubbed the back of her neck. "I did not train as part of a sniper crew."

"I did not suggest that you did," Arny said, still smiling gently. "It would be very unusual for a woman to train as a sniper in any case."

"I was not born as a man," Gunna said with a sniffle. She rubbed her nose, snorting loud. "Only one of those denials was true."

"My compliments to your surgeon."

Gunna smacked him hard. Her eyes drifted back to the mountain and she frowned, shading her eyes. "The snow seems restless. How were you of the describing of the sound again?"

"Like a gunshot."

Taking the binoculars from Arny, Gunna peered through the lenses before swearing quietly under her breath. "The snow is traveling like water down a busy slope. I am dizzy in my mind, can you ride a snow machine?"

"To find Sherlock and Molly?" Arny's face hardened. "Let me get the keys."

*****

He'd been wrong.

Digging deeper and deeper, Sherlock gasped as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them back, struggling to dig deeper until he collapsed into the snow bank with a sob. The snow lay in piles around him as he bent in two, trying to get ahold of himself. His fault. It was all his fault. All he'd wanted to do was try and ask a girl if he fancied him and he'd ended up killing her instead.

He sniffled loudly, shoulders shaking. His fault. All his fault.

It felt like the world was crashing down upon him. There was no way he could be forgiven for this. There was no way he could forgive himself. In his arrogance and ignorance he'd killed Molly Hooper. The only woman who had ever been truly kind to him. The only woman he'd ever loved.

The woman who mattered.

Gasping for breath he turned, collapsing upon the snowbank and covered his eyes with his trembling hand. No. He couldn't give in. He had to find her. There was still time. He had to still have time. Struggling to his feet he rubbed his chest, trying to rub the pain in his chest away.

He had one last chance. Find Molly. He had to find Molly.

Closing his eyes tightly he took a deep breath, holding it for a long moment before nodding. Find Molly. He could do this.

Calming his racing heart he breathed slowly and deeply, as his eyes scanned the snow drifts once more. His eyes studied every tiny hill, every valley in the snow for some sign that there was a person underneath there. Shading his face he peered carefully at the piled snow. Where was Molly? She had to be close, she had to be-

There.

He pressed through the snow, nearly tripping before he fell next to the small pile of snow. A small pile of snow from which a the tip of a pink ski emerged. Cupping his hands he dug deeply into the snow, following the ski and hoping against hope. If the ski had been ripped from Molly's boots as the avalanche swallowed her this would be another dead end. Molly would be gone then. He would have failed her for the final time. Heart in his throat he dug and dug, struggling to follow the ski down deeper and deeper until-

A boot.

His hands closed around it and he nearly sobbed in relief. Grabbing it he pulled but the snow didn't move an inch. The boot didn't either and he let go. Eyes scanning the snowbank he fell upon a spot four feet from where the boot lay. He dug deep, sweat beading against his brow.

"Come on," he muttered as the snow flew about him. "Molly, please. Please..."

He stuck the back of her jacket, clearing just enough snow to know he'd found the right spot before moving up. Molly was there she was right there… Why wasn't she moving?

"Molly please," he whispered. He hit her head, the knit of her cap appearing under his fingers. Pulling it off he revealed long chestnut locks flecked with snow and he tore off his gloves, trembling as he pulled the snow away from her neck and pressed his fingers against her cold flesh. "Please. Molly, Molly, I…. Please."

He closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten. And there it was, so faint he barely missed it but still there. A heartbeat. Choking out a gasp he dug the snow away from her face, opening the air pocket to the sky before he moved along her body once more. Slowly he freed her from the snow, checking her body over for injuries as he whispered to her.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured, checking her spine for any twists before slowly rolling her over to check her too pale face. He cupped it gently in his hands, pressing his fingers against her pulse again to make sure he hadn't lost her before resting his forehead against hers. "I've got you. Please, Molly. Be strong for me. I'll do whatever you want, I'll leave you alone forever, just don't leave me now."

She was too cold, too still as he pulled her from the snow, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to the surface. Molly's face was pale, her lips blue as he held her tight, desperately looking around. Fire. He needed a fire. He needed to warm Molly up or all of this would still be for nothing. She was still in so much danger, he had to save her-

From the distance he heard the roar of an engine and his head darted up, eyes sharp and focused as he scanned the horizon. Gently he lowered Molly to the ground. "Stay with me," he whispered, cupping her too-still face once more. The snow had frozen in her lashes making her look like a girl out of a fairy story. "I'll go get help. Wait for me to come back, don't leave me." He said the words firmly as if they would give them more weight than stood and sprinted towards the sound of the engine, shouting and waving his hands as he went.

*****

Arny sighed, coming to a stop. Allowing the engine to idle down he groaned, sitting fully upright and stretched. Pulling off his goggles, he cast his eyes heavenward. "I'm too old for this," he said, twisting in his seat to try and work the kinks out of his back. "I should be sitting in front of a roaring fire, enjoying a very expensive glass of wine right now, not running around after some fool boy. Why the devil didn't he take a radio with him anyway? Damn fool kids these days… And now I sound like my father." He sighed deeply, pinching his eyes. "Bloody fantastic."

He took another moment, standing up in the saddle and stretching before settling his goggles back upon his head. Why had he even come to this horried place? Snow hadn't appealed to him since his youth and he'd always preferred to perform his business where it would be most appreciated. That he'd found himself in such a mess, confronted by the last person he'd ever wanted to see in a situation such as this, well... He didn't know what to do. What to say. Was there anything he could say? Asking for forgiveness seemed so gauche and the last thing he needed was to be arrested for his rather colorful but decidedly long-ago past. He had alimony payments to make. His dreadful wives would never forgive him. Especially that dreadful Sabrina, now there was a woman who was a terror to behold.

Tugging his hat down he sat back in the seat and cranked the engine back up. "Tally ho," he muttered under his breath, turning the front skis to continue back down the mountain.

"Stop!"

Arny paused, letting the engine rev back down as he turned his head this way and that. Had someone just said something? He'd thought he'd heard-

A figure burst through the trees, stumbling and falling before righting itself once more. Arny caught a glimpse of a pale face and curly black hair before the figure crashed into him, nearly knocking the both of them and the snow machine over. Struggling them both upright Arny shoved the man back, his eyes going wide. "Sherlock? Is that-"

"Molly is injured," the wide eyed consulting detective gasped, seizing the front of Arny's jacket and hauling him up. "I have to save her, you have to help me-"

"Slow down!" the older man ordered, shoving Sherlock back once more. Taking in the gasping youth he nodded firmly. "Get on and tell me where to go. We'll get Molly."

Sherlock stared at him then nodded, throwing his leg over the snow machine's seat and grabbing hold of Arny's waist. "East," he said, as the engine revved. "Three hundred yards. Molly was caught in an avalanche."

"The dangers of restless snow," Arny muttered but gunned the engine, turning the snow machine towards the copse of trees Sherlock had burst out from.

It seemed to take ages and yet no time at all until they'd reached the spot where Molly rested, Sherlock tumbling from the snow machine as soon as it came to a stop. He staggered through the snow until he reached her, pressing her tight to his chest as his hands fumbled for a pulse. "She's still here," Sherlock said, cradling her in his arms. "She's still alive."

Stumbling from the snow machine, Arny surveyed the pale girl. "She doesn't look good," he muttered, stripping off his gloves to cup her face. "She's very cold."

"Hypothermia," Sherlock muttered, rocking back and forth with Molly in his arms. "Moderate to severe. Her lips are blue but she's not shivering. We need to… I need to get her warm. Build a fire. I need a lighter. Where is your lighter?"

"No time," Arny said firmly and stood. "Come on, we need to get her back to the chalet."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. There's not enough room for the three of us. I won't leave her behind."

"I'm not suggesting that," Arny snapped. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, forcing him to stand. The man did it automatically, still holding the unconscious woman tightly to his chest. "Go. Take Molly and go back to the chalet. Send someone to fetch me when you get there."

"But-"

"Do you have a better idea?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, his eyes slowly clearing. "No," he said shortly. Licking his lips he nodded and trudged over to the snow machine. "Help me bind her to me. I won't be able to steer and hold her at the same time."

Nodding again, Arny helped Sherlock settle Molly upon the snow machine. Fumbling through the side bags he found a ball of twine and carefully, loosely, bound Molly's arms around Sherlock. Between the two of them they settled her quickly, leaving Sherlock's hands free to reach the steering. "Remember, I'm counting on you to send someone back to fetch me," he said, stepping back as soon as the work was done.

Sherlock nodded, carefully tilting Molly's face towards his chest, wiping the snow away from her collar. "I won't forget." He hesitated, turning back to the older man. "Thank you," he said softly and revved the engine. Facing forward he sped off along their tracks, following the path back up to the chalet.

Standing in the sea of white Arny sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. He glanced around before sighing deeply. "Well here now is a spot of trouble, old chap," he murmured to himself as he eyed the surrounding mountains. "I do hope I don't die. My awful wife will probably follow me into the underworld and take her alimony payments out of my hide if I do." Shrugging he broke into a cheerful tune and began to saunter his way back up the mountain, whistling the entire way.

*****

Gunna glanced out the window as the roar of a snow machine approached the chalet. Was Arny back already? That was quick. Carefully folding in the antenna of her satellite phone she turned off the small device before carefully tucking it back into the hidden compartment of her suitcase. With exaggerated care she casually draped all her most scandalous of underwear upon it, disguising the small compartment once more. Honestly it wasn't the best hiding place, but she was dealing with a Brit. Sherlock was quite possibly the most buttoned up man she had ever met. If Molly so much as bent over and gave him a single, accidental glimpse of her cleavage he'd likely explode. The British. So prudish. They were almost worse than Americans in a way and Americans were ever so tedious to work with.

Her Mormor would have some things to say about Sherlock if the poor man ever had the misfortune to meet her. She could almost picture the look on the stern woman's face as she stirred the soup, the wind howling outside their small winter cabin. Trapped together for the season, ancient and young hands working together to try and keep them warm, to keep the herd fed and safe, to survive another long winter until spring arrived to deliver them from their binds of snow and darkness. Wise Mormor knitting in the quiet times with her never ending well of wisdom and nothing to fear. Her single good eye peering into the darkness to hold the cold at bay.

_"Lilla du, lyssna på mig… Den som alltid vet bäst lär sig aldrig något."_

"He who always knows best never learns." Mormor was always brilliant like that.

Smiling, Gunna removed a small framed photograph from it and pressed a kiss to the ancient face framed within. " _Jag älskar dig,_ " she murmured, caressing it fondly. "I shall be returning soon, Mormor. This time I shall build you a new barn. _Borta bra men hemma bäst._ "

The snow machine had come closer, finally reaching the court yard. Tucking the photograph back away Gunna peered out the window only for her eyes to go wide. Cursing loudly she dashed for the door, throwing it open and racing into the hall, down the stairs towards the front door.

She reached it as Sherlock did, kicking open the door with Molly tight in his arms. "What happened?" she demanded, cupping Molly's too cold face in her hands. The small woman's face was white and her lips were blue. She wasn't shivering. She was like the neighbor's boy, Bavval, after he had fallen through the ice one winter day when it had been too soon for skating. Yet unlike Bavval there was still breath in Molly. She had not yet been taken.

"Avalanche," Sherlock gasped, shouldering her aside. His eyes were wide and frightened like a calf with its leg stuck in a burrow. He could not be panicked or else the limb would snap. "Molly was caught inside. Hypothermia-"

"Upstairs. Now," Gunna snapped, shoving him hard towards the stairs. "Go. Strip her and get her to bed. She must be warmed."

"I know that-" the consulting detective said peevishly but there was no time for childish arguing.

"Herlock Sholmes," Gunna roared, rising to her full height. She glared hotly into his eyes, summoning everything her beloved Mormor had taught her in how to be dealing with stupid men and angry wolves to glower at him. "I am of the snow people while you only know rain. Get her upstairs and in bed or she shall die and it will be your doing." The man hesitated, shoulders sinking as his eyes went wide. "NOW!"

Sherlock turned and dashed for the stairs.

Lips twisting, Gunna let herself deflate. It was bad to hold such power all the time. It did bad things to the head and to the soul. Better to take it when needed and let it go when not. Snapping her fingers, Gunna shot a glare at the bellhop who'd been huddling in the hall, watching them with wide eyes. He was a rabbit boy, flighty but fast and he would do for her needs. "You! Be getting hot things. Tea and soup and bottles full of the hot water. Are you understanding?"

He nodded and fled, white tail bouncing after him as he bounded down the hall. Provided he didn't get distracted he would serve her well. Storming up the stairs, Gunna grabbed a passing maid and sent her to the laundry, demanding soft towels and as many blankets as she could find. That done she cast open the door to the bedroom hoping to find things well in hand but only sighed.

British people. They only knew rain. She shouldn't blame them, not really.

Sherlock had Molly upon the bed, that was good, but he was treating her with tender hands. Bad. Very bad. There was time that was trickling down. Molly was still pale, still not shivering. Bavval hadn't shivered either.

"Move," she said, shoving Sherlock to the side as he tenderly attempted to remove a boot. The man made a gasping protest but she didn't care, stripping down Molly with practiced ease. Her sexual journey of self discovery had taught her many things, some more useful than others. "Strip," she ordered shortly, tossing Molly's jacket then her trousers over her shoulder.

"Wh-what!?"

"Strip! Be naked!" Really, was that so hard to understand? When the detective continued to hesitate she sighed and turned. He'd already removed his jacket so she took hold of his shirt at both shoulders, pulling apart then down. Pale eyes going wide Sherlock sputtered, twisting away as his shirt split then fell apart from him. He held the shards to his chest like a startled virgin, stepping away from her as if she was a wolf about to ravish him. Poor little scared calf. "Take off your trousers and get into bed. Do not make me be of the doing of it. I will not be being gentle."

Sherlock looked at her horrified as she turned back and finished stripping Molly. Luckily her underthings were still dry. Their British modesty would be preserved. Casting aside the blankets she began to stip herself.

Clearing his throat loudly, Sherlock stepped by her side. He was naked besides his pants. Boxers. Interesting choice. He stood there awkwardly, eyes darting this way and that. "Why am I-"

"Get into the bed."

Sherlock blinked, eyes wide. "With Molly? But she's-"

"Body heat is best."

He blinked again then nodded slowly. "Yes… but…"

"In the bed."

The detective hesitated again then climbed under the covers. His eyes were low, not looking at anything, his body far from Molly's and Gunna sighed deeply. Throwing her trousers towards her suitcase she climbed into bed and shoved Molly's limp form until it was pressed tightly against Sherlock's side before cuddling close to her other side. Pulling the blankets up high she curled around Molly, grabbing Sherlock's limbs and positioning him just so as well.

There was a very long moment of silence. At last Sherlock cleared his voice. "Now what?" he asked, voice suspiciously rough.

Gunna tried not to roll her eyes and failed. This man and his buttons. If he had just shagged the pretty pathologist like a normal person he would not be in this awkward situation now. "She must be warmed," Gunna said shortly, hands running down Molly's form and pressing the lengths of their body together more firmly. "She must shiver then warm or she will die."

"I-I know that, but…" Sherlock swallowed hard. "Is there any easier way?"

Taking Molly's hands in her own, Gunna looked at the pale digits before carefully pressing them between her breasts. She shivered hard, Molly's hands were like ice, but there at least they would be warm there. "Heat is her only savior. If there is no heat there is no survival. We will be her body packs until the heated ones come."

"Ah," Sherlock muttered and shifted awkwardly.

They stared at each other over Molly's still form until Gunna sighed. "Would it be helping you if you pleasured yourself in the loo? To see your face is distracting."

Sherlock's eyes widened and then he glared. "I'm. Fine," he growled lowly.

Snorting, Gunna rolled her eyes and cuddled closer. "If you insist." They waited again for a long time, the two of them pressing close as limbs pressed against chilled ones. Gently rubbing Molly's arms, she stared down upon Molly's face and hoped for a shiver. Bavval had never shivered. She had dragged his body to the closest barn, covered them in old blankets and hay and held him close through the night until they were discovered the next day and he'd never shivered. She'd spent the night cuddling a corpse.

Tilting Molly's head up, Sherlock pressed his fingers against her pulse point. "She's very weak," he whispered. His eyes were tender and dark. Like a lover. Her heart fluttered.

"Why were you so stupid?" Gunna asked gruffly, shifting Molly's hands to tuck them under her own armpits. Freezing again, but Molly's hands were once again warm. "Why did you go out into the treacherous snow? Thousand Faces was not worth this."

Sherlock looked at her then away, swallowing hard. "I-I know… I was being… stubborn."

"Why?" she demanded again, eyes hard. Didn't this man know the dangers? She'd tried to warn him, tried to warn Molly as well, but he'd mocked her and went into the snow anyway. It had been traitorous and angry, not the sort of snow to go into.

"I needed to contact my brother in order to do a background check," Sherlock said, his eyes still on the wall.

"What? Why was that importa-"

"To determine conclusively whether you were Thousand Faces or not."

Gunna's heart jumped into her throat and she swallowed hard. Her eyes had narrowed by the time Sherlock looked back at her, lip twisting. With a growl she cast herself from the bed, Sherlock yelping and pulling Molly close as he desperately pressed the blankets back down.

"What are you doing!? You said she needed body heat!"

Stalking across the room, Gunna grabbed up her handbag. Snatching out her mobile phone she pressed her thumb to the button, unlocking it as she went back to the bed and slipped back inside. "Look," she said, pulling up the photo app and shoving it in his face. "See and observe, Herlock."

Sherlock glared at her but took the mobile. "Why on earth would I want you to see you in your bathing costume?" he growled, thumbing through the images. "This isn't exactly the time for vacation-" He stopped, lips pursing tight.

Curling up close to Molly Gunna, pressed her face tight against the other woman's neck. "You see the date?"

"Yes. Date and time stamped for when the first robberies were held," Sherlock said, dropping the mobile with a sigh. He rubbed his brow, eyes falling shut. "You could have altered the time stamp."

"I shall give you my air tickets after Molly is well. I am still of the having of them. I flew here from Barbados, my winter holiday."

"Fantastic," Sherlock muttered. He sighed once more, blinking up at the ceiling. "I focused on you due to the fact I dislike you without ever attempting to determine if you had an alibi. Sloppy…"

"I did not steal those gems and I did not kill that man. I am not a killer," Gunna said sullenly.

Nodding, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Molly once more. "I believe you," he said, voice gruff. "You most likely would not be helping Molly if you were Thousand Faces. You would know that her death would throw me off, make it easier for you to get off."

She smacked his arm, glaring hotly at him. "I like Molly. You are a poop boot to be thinking that I would not be of the helping of her. Dumb like a goose!"

Blinking at her, a smirk tugged against Sherlock's lips. "I'm a poop boot?"

"The insult, it is sounding better in Swedish," Gunna huffed, wrapping her arms tighter around Molly. "You think me stupid in the head, but I am the one not speaking my own language. You try to speak Swedish and see how smart you are being."

Sherlock looked away, his shoulders shaking. "Poop boot," he muttered again, eyes filling with mirth.

Reaching over Gunna smacked him again before settling back down next to Molly. Glaring over her still form she muttered under her breath before pausing. Staring down at the woman she smiled as Molly's eyelids twitched. She shivered faintly. Curling up close, Gunna smiled and mentally bid farewell to the ghost of Bavval of the cold dead eyes.

Molly would live.


End file.
